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UNDER HIS THUMB. 


By DONALD J. McKENZIE. No. 26. 























N 

















The Secret Service Series— No. 26. 

Issued. JMontlily. 

DEVOTED TO STORIES OF THE DETECTION OF CRIME. 

Subscription Price, $3 Per Year. DECEMBER, 1889. 

Coyyrighted, 1889, by Street & Smith. 

Entered at the Post Office , New York, as Second-Class Matter. 


UNDER HIS THUMB ; 

OR, 

The Rival Detectives’ Clews. 


BY 



donald j. mckenzie. 


author of 


“THE WALL STREET WONDER,” “THE GRAND PARK 
SENSATION,” Etc. 




STREET & SMITH, 


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UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PRINTING-HOUSE TRAGEDY. 

The sharp report of a pistol rang through the great 
printing-house of Blain & Waldron. 

And almost simultaneously a loud, clear voice 
shouted : 

“Waldron has killed himself!” 

Not less than fifty of the employees of the establish- 
ment heard the pistol shot, and half that number 
heard and understood the cry. 

As this fact has an important bearing upon the 
great mystery which was speedily to be developed, 
the reader will please bear it in mind. 

None heard the sounds more distinctly than Steve 
Lawton, a young apprentice, who chanced at the 
moment to be “sorting pi” in an apartment directly 
over the counting-room. 

The youngster dropped the handful of type that 
he held at the instant, and darted toward the stair- 
way. 

At the foot of the stairs he collided with George 
Dyer, the foreman of one of the composing-rooms, 


6 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


and was brought to a halt by a powerful grasp upon 
his arm. 

Dyer gave the lad a violent shaking, with the 
gruff remark: 

‘Til teach you better than to run over a fellow in 
that way!” 

Steve struggled to free his arm, retorting : 

“Let go of me, won’t yer? You ain’t my boss. I 
tell yer, let go!” 

But Dyer clung to him tenaciously, only too glad 
of this chance to vent the natural spitefulness of his 
disposition upon a young apprentice. 

“Where are you going in such a rush?” he de- 
manded, giving Steve another shake. 

“Going to see who is shot,” the boy replied. 

“You go back to work. You are not a cop yet, so 
you are not obliged to run every time you hear a pis- 
tol fired.” 

“I guess I’ve a right to find out what’s the matter. 
I heard somebody say that Mr. Waldron had killed 
himself. Mr. Waldron is a friend of mine, he is. 
He picked me up out of the street, and took me in to 
learn the trade. If he’s shot, then I’m jest going to 
know, and don’t you forgit it!” 

Steve was both angry and horrified. 

That others had heard the shot and cry he knew 
because of the hurrying footsteps in all parts of the 
great building. 

Doors opened and closed ; there was a confusion 
of excited voices ; girls, boys, men, and women ran 
hither and thither, white, horrified, and breathless. 

“What has happened?” 

“Shot, did you say?” 

“Mr.Waldron killed?” 

“It can’t be possible!” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


7 


Such were the excited utterances on all sides ; but 
no coherent reply was made to any of them. 

The clanking of the great printing presses in the 
basement had ceased, and from below a great num- 
ber of men and boys poured into the passage-way 
where Steve and the young foreman had encountered 
each other. 

None of them seemed to know which way to turn. 
Some thought the sounds proceeded from one of the 
upper rooms ; to others it seemed as though the pis- 
tol report was in the street, or the adjoining build- 
ing. 

Several stopped to question Dyer, and this gave 
Steve the desired opportunity. 

He adroitly freed his arm from the young man’s 
grasp, and before the latter could again seize him 
the lad reached the next door-way, and darted 
through. 

In another moment Steve was at the door of the 
counting-room. It was closed, and as yet no one had 
arrived upon the scene. Evidently, to all save the 
young apprentice, the startling sounds had appeared 
to proceed from another quarter of the building. 

But the lad, being directly over the room in ques- 
tion at the moment, could not have been deceived. 

He was surprised to find the door closed. It was 
customary during business hours to allow all the 
doors communicating with the counting-room and 
main office to stand open. 

“This is a queer go!” Steve exclaimed, aloud. 

His hand rested upon the knob, but an indefinable 
dread caused him to hesitate. 

He listened intently for a moment. He could hear 
footsteps coming and going in all parts of the build- 


8 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


in g ; but from within the counting-room not a sound 
proceeded. 

Steve was a plucky lad ; there was not a timid hair 
about him ; yet, as he turned the knob and slowly 
opened the door, his form was convulsed by a vio- 
lent shudder. 

He crossed the threshold, and again listened be- 
fore venturing to glance about the room. 

How still it was ! A cold current of air swept past, 
rustling some papers upon the row of desks behind 
the long railing, and with it came the pungent odor 
of burned powder. 

Instantly Steve was aroused to action. He heard 
nearer footsteps, this time unmistakably approach- 
ing the counting-room. He saw, first, an open win- 
dow, beyond which was a narrow court inclosed by 
grim stone walls. Upon the floor were several news- 
papers, evidently blown thither by the draught. 
This was all there was to be seen outside the desk- 
railing, and Steve hastened to open the lattice-door 
leading to the private quarters of the clerks and pro- 
prietors. 

He cast a single swift glance across the space be- 
yond. Then he drew back, his face growing white, 
a gasp of horror parting his lips. 

As he turned he found himself face to face with 
Mr. Blain, the senior member of the firm. 

“What is it, boy? What has happened?” that 
gentleman exclaimed, in a husky voice. 

“Look for yourself, sir. It’s awful! awful!” 

So much the boy managed to articulate, and with- 
out waiting to see or hear more, he darted past the 
throng of employees who had followed Mr. Blain 
into the room. 

An instant later an alarm was rung at the nearest 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


9 


police station, and Steve Lawton, the young appren- 
tice, was at the other end of the wire. 

He had scarce sounded the signal before his arm 
was seized and an angry voice demanded : 

“Why did you do that?” 

The speaker was Dyer, the young foreman, and 
his voice was full of anger. 

“To call the cops, of course,” Steve returned, a 
flash of defiance in his small, dark eyes. 

“What have the police to do with a case of this 
kind? Mr. Waldron committed suicide, and ” 

Steve interrupted, in a tone of conviction : 

“It ain’t a suicide, George Dyer, and you know it.” 

“What do you mean?” Dyer retorted. 

“It is a murder.” 

“Why do you think so?” 

The lad pointed to the open window, and replied : 

“’Cause that is never opened at this time of day, 
you know. Somebody shot Mr. Waldron, and then 
lumped out into the court. I can show where he 
struck. ” 

Steve drew the young man toward the window. 
As he drew near the latter, he saw something upon 
the white sash that caused him to ejaculate: 

“What do you think of that? Guess I know some- 
thin’, if I don’t happen to be boss over a lot of type- 
stickers.” 

George Dyer, for the first time, exhibited intense 
excitement. He was rather apathetic by nature, 
and those who knew him were wont to remark that 
an earthquake wouldn’t make him change color. 

“You’re right, Steve!” he exclaimed, in a low, 
husky tone. “It is a murder, and a bold one at 
that. It seems as though it would be easy to catch 
the culprit, though.” 


10 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Quickly the tidings ran through the increasing 
throng which was gathering in the spacious count- 
ing-room, and many crowded close to the open win- 
dow and stared shudderingly at the tell-tale sign 
which Steve’s keen eyes' had detected. 

The sash was broad, smooth, and painted white. 
Near the middle, just where one would naturally 
take hold to raise the sash, was the bloody imprint 
of a man’s thumb. 

This was all ; yet how significant, even to the in- 
experienced eyes of those who stared at it in morbid 
curiosity. 

At this juncture several officers arrived upon the 
scene, and the crowd was forced to retire. Only 
Steve, Dyer, Mr. Blain, and two or three others, be- 
sides the policemen, were allowed to remain. 

Steve noticed one slender, thin-featured man who 
entered behind the officers, and of whom the latter 
appeared to take not the least notice. 

This man wore spectacles, and seemed to be very 
near-sighted. He also appeared to be quite deaf, for 
he frequently placed his hands to his ears as though 
trying to catch something which was being said. 

“A reporter,” was the lad’s mental decision, after 
watching him curiously for several moments. 

The absurdity of this inference struck him imme- 
diately, however, and he added, half aloud : 

“The idea of a deaf and near-sighted reporter, 
when it is their business to see and hear everything. 
Ha! What is the chap up to now, I wonder?” 

The odd-looking stranger had crossed over to the 
open window, and seemed to be closely inspecting 
the bloody thumb-print on the sash. 

And the next moment Steve saw him do a most 
extraordinary thing. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


11 


With a tiny saw which he produced from a pocket, 
the man quickly made a slot in the sash on each side 
of the mark. Then, with a keen-bladed knife he 
deftly clipped off a small section of the sash, wrapped 
the piece in tissue paper, and then stood motionless 
as a statue, gazing out into the court. 

All this was accomplished so quickly that, with 
the exception of Steve Lawton, not a soul in the 
room noticed the action. And before Steve had time 
to conjecture concerning the stranger’s purpose, his 
attention was diverted by a most thrilling occur- 
rence. 

He heard the sounds of a scuffle behind the railing. 
Turning quickly, he was in time to see a man spring 
past the guard at one of the doors, followed by two 
others in swift pursuit. 

The fugitive was George Dyer, the foreman ; the 
pursuers were policemen. 

At the same instant a shout was raised that elec- 
trified all who heard it. 

“Stop him ! Stop the miscreant !” 

Half involuntarily, Steve sprang past the guard 
into the passage-way beyond — on, until he reached 
the stair- way leading to the basement. 

The policemen had kept on past this stair-way, sup- 
posing the one of whom they were in pursuit to have 
made for the street door. But a significant sound 
from below caused Steve to dart down the stairs in- 
stead. 

Reaching a small room below, which was dimly 
lighted, the lad paused to listen. 

Why he was pursuing George Dyer he did not 
know. Why were the policemen chasing him? 
What had the young foreman done? Surely he could 
not be the 


12 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Steve’s hasty reflections were interrupted by a 
shadow falling athwart the floor. At the same in- 
stant he turned and met the gaze of George Dyer. 

“Not a sound — on your life, be quiet !” the fore- 
man huskily exclaimed, emphasizing his command 
by thrusting a revolver close to the startled young- 
ster’s face. 

Steve knew better than to disobey an injunction 
like that. Yet he was not frightened, for there was 
an expression in the young man’s eyes more likely 
to excite pity than fear. 

“Why are the cops chasin’ you?” Steve found 
voice to ask. 

“Hush ! I must hide, and you must not betray me, 
Steve. You will not betray me!” Dyer exclaimed, in 
low, earnest tones. 


UNDEB HIS THUMB. 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

THE DETECTIVE. 

We will not mystify the reader with vague com 
plications. The occasion of George Dyer’s sudden 
flight from the counting-room and the hot pursuit of 
the officers can be quickly explained, so far as it 
was understood by the pursuers themselves. 

As yet no formal investigation had been held. 

Along with the policemen a coroner’s deputy had 
arrived, and as he was a physician, he had pro- 
ceeded to examine the body of Mr. Waldron. 

The latter lay upon the floor, and in one hand he 
grasped a revolver. One chamber of the latter was 
empty ; and the fatal bullet had penetrated the vic- 
tim’s heart, causing instantaneous death. 

So much was revealed at a glance, and so far it 
appeared like a suicide. 

The physician’s examination was quickly made, in 
the presence of Mr. Blain and two policemen, one of 
the latter being a sergeant from police headquarters. 

In the meanwhile, the other circumstances of the 
case, which pointed strongly to the theory of mur- 
der, were freely discussed by those present, as was 
natural, and during this discussion George Dyer had 
appeared upon the scene. 

The young man’s face was rather pale, as was 
natural under the circumstances. As he stood gaz- 
ing upon the lifeless form of his late employer, Mr. 
Blain lightly touched his arm, and said : 


14 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“I think you can give valuable evidence at the in- 
quest, George.” 

There was no particular significance in the gentle- 
man’s tones. Mr. Blain was agitated, of course, and 
he had an abrupt way of saying things which was a 
trifle startling to a stranger. 

The young foreman quickly glanced up, his pallor 
deepening, and in an indignant tone, he exclaimed : 

‘'What do you mean, sir?” 

The tone, rather than the words, caused all pres- 
ent to fix their gaze upon his face. 

Mr. Blain hesitated an instant, and then, as though 
prompted by a sudden impulse, he said : 

“It was you who said, ‘Waldron has killed him- 
self ! ’ I heard the shout plainly, for I was coming 
up from the basement at the time the shot was fired. 
And it was your voice.” 

Mr. Blain did not, in the beginning, intend to 
make this accusation. Only at this moment had he 
been convinced that it was Dyer who had uttered 
the startling words. 

It was only the young man’s singular agitation 
that had given birth to the conviction. 

Dyer was silent a moment. His eyes blazed with 
a strange expression. The coroner’s deputy and the 
policemen continued to stare. 

“Do you accuse me?” Dyer then demanded. 

“Only of uttering the words I have repeated,” 
was the reply. 

“And if I did utter them?” 

“Explain— that is all.” 

“I have nothing to say, sir.” 

The young man cast a swift, furtive glance 
toward the officers. Then he turned away hastily, 
seemingly, at least, with the intention of flight. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


15 


Mr. Blain and the deputy coroner made simulta- 
neous signs to the policemen, which the latter failed 
to observe. Then the former himself sprang to in- 
tercept the foreman. 

He caught the latter around the waist ; there was 
a momentary struggle, then Dyer flung off the grasp 
of his employer and darted through the gate-way 
leading from the desk-room to the outer office. 

One of the policemen bounded in pursuit, and thus 
occurred the scene which had so mystified Steve 
Lawton, the young apprentice. 

Neither Mr. Blain, nor the coroner passed the 
guard at the entrance of the passage. They were 
confident the policeman would overtake the fugitive. 

“What can the fellow mean? It cannot be that 
he is the guilty one ! No, no !” 

It was Mr. Blain who said this, and his tones ex- 
pressed sudden anguish, for George Dyer was a 
trusted employee. 

At that moment his glance rested for the first time 
on the slender spectacled man, whose mysterious 
maneuvers had excited the curiosity of Steve Law- 
ton. 

This individual had left the window, and was in 
the act of passing through the railing gate-way, be- 
yond which lay the victim of the tragedy. Blain 
and the doctor followed. The latter said, in an 
undertone : 

“That is Croly, the new detective. Rather cranky 
they call him, but he has worked up one or two ex- 
traordinary cases, it is said.” 

They saw the spectacled man examine the revolver 
which had been taken from the hand of the corpse. 
Then he inspected the fatal wound, scanned the 
floor, the ceiling, and the walls in turn. 


16 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Mr. Blain and the coroner’s deputy furtively 
watched him. 

“A detective quack — a pretender!” was the for- 
mer’s mental decision. 

This verdict had scarcely crossed his mind, how- 
ever, before he was impelled to change it. 

“A quarrel; pistols drawn ; other party fired first ; 
Mr. Waldron the victim.” 

This was spoken by Croly, the detective, in a mild, 
low voice. He had abruptly ceased his investiga- 
tions and addressed the remark to Mr. Blain. 

“You think Mr. Waldron was killed in a quarrel?” 
Blain demanded, in his abrupt way. 

“Evidently. He might have drawn his weapon for 
self-defense, but he certainly had no chance to 
use it.” 

“So you did not notice the empty chamber of the 
cylinder?” 

“Oh, yes. Been empty a good while, too. Car- 
tridge-shell removed ; barrel not smoked ; weapon 
hasn’t been used since it was thoroughly cleaned 
and oiled. You did not hold to the suicide theory, 
Mr. Blain?” 

The latter felt strangely thrilled as the spectacled 
eyes of the detective were fixed penetratingly upon 
his face. 

“Certainly not, since the bloody thumb-mark was 
discovered on the window-sash.” 

“Still you thought this pistol was the one used?” 

“I supposed the murderer placed the weapon in 
the hand of his victim before escaping.” 

“Hot at all. He didn’t stop for that. Mr. Wal- 
dron was shot by an enemy in a quarrel. You 
ought to be able to name the culprit, Mr. Blain. 
Who was Mr. Waldron’s bitterest enemy, eh?” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


17 


“I did not know he had one in the world.” 

“You are his partner?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And didn’t know he had an enemy?” 

“I did not.” 

“That is queer, I declare. How long have you 
been in business together?” 

“For ten years.” 

“And I suppose you know each other rather inti- 
mately?” 

“Of course. We were warm personal friends.” 

“Still you did not suspect that he had an enemy? 
Why, have you kept your eyes shut for ten years?” 

“Business men may be friends and still not pry 
into each other’s private affairs,” said Mr. Blain, a 
trifle sharply. 

Croly cast a peculiar glance toward the coroner’s 
deputy, and said : 

“I suppose, Mr. Blain, that you have no enemies?” 

“I am not prepared to say, sir. I have intended 
to treat every one squarely, yet I may have uncon- 
sciously excited enmity.” 

The detectve stepped quietly forward, and tapped 
the rich man lightly upon the shoulder. 

“Let us understand each other, Mr. Blain,” he 
said, in his mild tones. 

As we have before stated, Julian Blain was the 
senior partner of the firm. He was one of the “solid” 
business men in New York, and it would be hard to 
find one whose reputation for integrity stood higher 
than his. 

He was wealthy and honored. He had held va- 
rious public offices, and, unlike many, he had not 
betrayed the trust reposed in him. 

He was called in all respects a “square” man. 


18 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Woe to the employee, foreman, or apprentice, who 
should quibble or prevaricate in their dealings with 
Mr. Blain. And woe likewise to the one who should 
dispute or defy this gentleman upon his own 
premises. He was abrupt of speech and rather hasty 
in temper. The words and tones of this slender, spec- 
tacled detective irritated him, and he sharply re- 
torted : 

“Well, sir, what have you to say?” 

The coroner’s deputy bent eagerly forward. He 
felt that something startling was about to occur. 

“Simply, Mr. Blain,” Croly began, with studied 
deliberateness; “simply this, sir: you have stated 
to me an out and out falsehood.” 

The deputy scarce repressed a startled exclama- 
tion ! 

Mr. Blain recoiled, as though he had received a 
blow in the face. 

“Dare you tell me that I have lied?” he fiercely 
demanded. 

“About the same thing, sir,” was the mild re- 
sponse. 

“Do you mean it?” 

“I mean it. It is a good plan for us to start with a 
good understanding with each other. We shall be 
better friends in the end.” 

Julian Blain, in his fierce anger, sprang toward 
the detective with clenched hands. 

But the blow which he impetuously sent out was 
skillfully parried ; and in another instant the rich 
man was whirled around by powerful arms and for- 
cibly seated in a pivotal chair close at hand. 

For a moment the gentleman panted helplessly 
from exhaustion and the excess of passion. 

He did not attempt to rise. But he glared up at 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


19 


the face of the detective, who seemed not the least 
excited by that which had taken place. 

“You must restrain your temper, sir,” Croly 
quietly remarked, while he waited for the other to 
regain his breath. 

Mr. Blain’s anger subsided as quickly as it had 
been aroused. 

“If you thought I was deceiving you,” he said, 
speaking quite calmly, “you should have stated your 
suspicions more courteously.” 

“Then you would have denied their truth. Now 
you will admit it. You know that Mr. Waldron had 
an enemy, and so have you. That enemy was a for- 
mer business partner of yours, whom you ‘crowded 
out’ of the partnership because he was dissipated 
and seemed likely to disgrace you. The man’s 
name is Carl Brandon, and he swore vengeance 
against you both. Am I not right?” 

Mr. Blain rose slowly to his feet, the flush of anger 
upon his face having given place to a slight pallor. 

“What you say is true,” he declared; “though 
Heaven only knows how you became possessed of 
the information. I supposed the secret was dead and 
buried. At all events, it can have nothing to do with 
this tragedy. Carl Brandon was a reckless man, but 
he would never do this.” 

“I have not charged Brandon with the crime. But 
it is well to question every circumstance in the case, 
even to the graceful, closely vailed lady who called 
upon your partner early this morning. You saw this 
lady come and go, Mr. Blain. You do not think she 
could have instigated the murder?” 

Mr. Blain’s visage turned to the hue of ashes, his 
lips trembled, and he clutched the arms of his chair 
as though for support. 


20 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Great Heaven, man! how knew you of her 
visit?” he hoarsely asked. 

“I saw her as she entered and came forth— pretty 
fair evidence, you see,” the detective replied. “I 
even know that Mr. Waldron’s visitor was a certain 
pretty compositor in your printing-house. Her name 
and the object of her visit I shall ascertain in due 
time. As you now understand that I have a faculty 
of discovering all sorts of facts, you will see how 
useless your attempts to hide them from me must 
prove. But hush ! Here come the officers who 
started out after that foreman of yours. And he has 
given them the slip.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DETECTIVE’S STRANGE CLEW. 

Croly, the detective, did not stay to hear the re- 
port of the policemen who had failed in their at- 
tempt to overtake George Dyer. 

He hastened out upon the street, quickly walked 
to the elevated railway station at the Bowery and 
Canal street, took the first train, and, a little later, 
alighted at East Forty-seventh street. His private 
rooms were close by, and he went to them directly. 

Opening from his chamber was a small room, lit- 
tle larger than a closet, the door of which he kept 
constantly locked. 

The room had no window, and his first act upon 
entering was to light the gas. Then he closed the 
door and seated himself at a table. 

The room was fitted up with shelves. These, as 
well as the table, were laden with an indescribable 
jumble of curiosities. 

There were odd-shaped knives, murderous-looking 
dirks, pistols of all sizes and shapes, a fragment of 
a dynamite bomb, several burglars’ tools, and va- 
rious other implements taken from criminals or pre- 
served as clews to unsolved mysteries. 

On the table was an open scrap-book, in which 
were pasted portraits and sketches of numerous 
criminals, clipped from the newspapers. There were 
also several labeled vials containing liquids and 
powders. In a glass jar, floating in alcohol, was a 
severed finger — a clew to a crime recently solved by 
this wonderful detective. 


22 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Upon another table, over which a mirror hung, 
were materials for every conceivable disguise that 
one might wish to assume. 

Croly took from his pocket the piece which he had 
cut from the window-sash in the printing-house 
counting-room. He unwrapped it carefully, and 
then studied the bloody thumb-print with eager in- 
tensity. 

From a shelf he took down a tattered book, and 
opened it at a marked page. A single line on the 
printed page was underlined with blue ink. The line 
read as follows : 

“The lines on no two human thumbs are exactly 
alike.” 

The detective had read this statement a great 
many times, but never with such vital interest as the 
present. 

The book was an old, curious affair, containing 
many wonders of human research and science. It 
also contained some exploded sophistries, no longer 
of value. 

Whether the curious statement underlined by the 
detective was true or not, Croly was uncertain. 

He had carefully studied the subject, vaguely im- 
pressed that at some time it would prove of value to 
him. What if the print of a human thumb, and the 
lines upon the same, should at some time prove to be 
the only clew to a great crime? 

Often had this thought passed through the detec- 
tive’s mind ; and like a sagacious prophecy, it now 
seemed likely to be fulfilled. 

A crime had been committed — a crime enshrouded 
in deepest mystery, and the only clew, save those of 
a most superficial character, was this bloody impres- 
sion on the window-sash. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


23 


•The impression was wonderfully perfect, every 
line being distinctly traced. It seemed as though 
Fate had placed this piece of evidence in the hands 
of the great scientific detective, that the truth or fal- 
lacy of the curious statement might be proven. 

Croly placed this strange clew carefully under a 
glass globe, to protect it from dust and accident. 
Then he closed the book, and said, aloud : 

“Most detectives would consider such a clew as 
this a rather slender one. I guess it is. But some- 
how, I am impressed by a conviction that the wretch 
who shot Hiram Waldron left behind a fatal im- 
print, and that I shall soon have him under my 
thumb.” 

The detective went out, carefully closing and lock- 
ing the door. 

Later in the day be attended the inquest in the 
coroner’s office, in East Houston street. He was 
called upon to testify as an expert. 

The verdict implicated no one, but declared the 
case to be one of murder, not of suicide. 

After the inquest Croly returned to the printing- 
house. Of course, business in the building was sus- 
pended, but a number of employees and others lin- 
gered about the premises under the impulse of mor- 
bid curiosity. 

Croly found Mr. Blain in a small private office. 
That gentleman had just concluded a consultation 
with a detective sergeant from police headquarters. 

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Croly,” the gentleman 
promptly said, placing a chair for his visitor. 

“I was afraid you would not be,” was the quick 
reply. 

Croly seated himself in a position whence he could 


24 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


furtively watch the expressions of the other through 
his spectacles. 

“Why not, sir?” Mr. Blain demanded. 

"On account of our encounter of this morning.” 

4 'You were discourteous, and I was hasty.” 

"I was outspoken, that is all. I gave you a fair 
chance to tell me the truth, but you persisted in an 
out and out falsehood.” 

The detective’s tones were mild, but his words 
were blunt. 

No one ever dared before to use such language to 
Julian Blain. 

"You tried to entrap me,” the latter declared, an 
angry tremor in his tones. 

"I tried your veracity, and found it wanting, sir.” 

"Did you come here to insult me?” 

"I came to have a plain talk. You will gain 
nothing by flying into a passion.” 

"I claim the right of resenting insult.” 

"Of course you do when you are insulted. But 
since you have admitted your fault, I fail to see 
where the offense on my part comes in.” 

"Never mind, let it pass. What do you wish to 
know?” 

"In the first place, do you wish this mystery to 
be solved?” 

"By all means.” 

"Are you willing I should take the case?” 

"You are privileged to do so, but I shall not under- 
take to keep other detectives from working on it.” 

"Of course not.” 

Croly bent slightly forward and rapped the table 
which was between them with his forefinger. 

"Mr. Blain, where were you when the fatal shot 
was fired?” he asked. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


25 


“I was on the street.” 

“How far from the building?” 

“Only a few yards. I was on the point of enter- 
ing.” 

“You heard the pistol-shot?” 

“Distinctly.” 

“And the shout which several have stated that 
they heard immediately afterward?” 

“Yes.” 

“What did you do then?” 

“I ran to the counting-room entrance, and found 
it locked.” 

“Locked, eh! And then what?’ 

“I went around to another door and entered.” 

“You came directly to the scene of the tragedy?” 
“I did.” 

“Whom did you first encounter?” 

“George Dyer, in the passage with several others. 
Next was Steve Lawton, one of my apprentices, who 
was first to discover the crime.” 

“Where is this youngster, who, I understand, was 
first to find the victim, first to sound an alarm, first 
to summon officers?” 

“He has disappeared — probably run off to escape 
testifying at the inquest.” 

‘ ‘Probably he has done nothing of the kind. Has 
search been made for him?” 

“We sent to his lodgings and made inquiries.” 

“And that is all?” 

“That is all.” 

“How about George Dyer?” 

“That is what puzzles me. He cannot be found, 
although this building has been searched from top 
to bottom, and the police all over the city are on the 
lookout for him.” 


26 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Then you think he knows something about the 
crime ?” 

“I am convinced that he does. I am positive that 
it was he who uttered the cry, ‘ Waldron has killed 
himself/ which was heard directly after the shot.” 

“He would not utter such a cry without a motive?” 

“That is what looks dark for him.” 

“Do you think he killed Mr. Waldron?” 

“Under other circumstances I should as soon think 
of suspecting the Governor of the State.” 

“What is Dyer’s character?” 

“Excellent. He is temperate, a good compositor, 
faithful in all respects. He has a weakness for bully- 
ing the boy apprentices — and that is the only thing 
I have ever seen in him to dislike.” 

“Was he on good terms with Mr. Waldron?” 

“I have no reason to think otherwise.” 

“When you first encountered him in the passage, 
did he appear agitated?” 

“He was calmer than the others.” 

“In case he committed the crime, could he have 
jumped out through the open window in the count- 
ing room, and afterward have made his way unob- 
served to the passage where you found him?” 

“He could not.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I was near enough to have seen him.” 

“Then he certainly did not commit the crime.” 

“How are you so positive?” 

“Because the murderer escaped by the window.” 

“Perhaps he raised the sash as a ‘blind/ and then 
ran into the passage where I saw him.” 

“No, he did not. Some one leaped through the 
open window. The marks where the man struck 
underneath the window were very plain. That isn’t 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


27 


all. There was a window open in the building upon 
the other side of the court, and evidently the fugi- 
tive escaped from the court in that direction.” 

Mr. Blain sprang to his feet in his eagerness. 

“Then that building must be searched and guarded. 
The wretch may be hiding there at this moment.” 

He would have rung an alarm had his hand not 
been arrested by the detective, who calmly said : 

“Wait— it is all right. I caused the place to be 
searched, very quietly, while the coroner was mak- 
ing his investigations here. And the place is now 
guarded. But nothing was found.” 

Mr. Blain gazed at the detective with an expres- 
sion of admiration. 

“You keep your wits about you, I declare, Mr. 
Croly !” 

“I always find them handy in my business,” the 
other dryly replied. 

Croly rose and added : 

“Have I your consent to search this building on 
my own account?” 

“You have, and to come and go at pleasure. A 
noble, Christian gentleman has been foully dealt 
with— a man whom I loved as a brother— and I wish 
no stone to remain unturned in the quest of the mur- 
derer !” 

Mr. Blain’s tones softened with emotion, and he 
earnestly added : 

“I shall depend upon you to solve this mystery, 
Mr. Croly.” 

At that moment both were startled by the sound 
of rapid footsteps outside the door, followed by the 
cry: 

“If yer lay a hand on me I— I’ll strike !” 


28 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER IV. 

STEVE’S THRILLING EXPERIENCE. 

Steve Lawton, face to face with Dyer, the fore- 
man, was strangely impressed by the speech of the 
latter. 

“Why did you run from the cops?” the boy reiter- 
ated. 

“Because I did not wish them to take me,” was 
the weak reply. 

“That’s a slim reason, I call it. Why shouldn’t I 
run from ’em? Why shouldn’t everybody in the city 
take to their legs when they see a couple of cops 
cornin’ along — hey? I guess you’ve done something, 
George Dyer!” 

♦ The grasp upon the boy’s arm tightened, and a 
menacing glance shot from the young man’s eyes. 

“If you dare to betray me it will go hard with 
you,” he hissed. 

“I don’t see how I can betray yer when I don’t 
know as you’ve done anything.” 

The footsteps of the pursuing officers grew louder 
over their heads. The sounds increased the anxiety 
of the foreman, who said : 

“Steve, you must help me to escape.” 

“Me — help you?” 

“Yes. You must throw my pursuers off my track.” 

“Why should I do that?” 

“Because I have done nothing deserving of the 
punishment which I am sure to receive if I am 
taken.” 

“Then what are you hidin’ for?” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


29 


“Because there is evidence against me. Quick — 
will you aid me or not?” 

“I ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ in the dark. I ain’t so 
fresh as all that.” 

The boy half regretted his words the instant they 
were uttered, for Dyer glared upon him with such 
intense ferocity that he half feared he would use the 
weapon. 

In that moment a horrible fear flashed upon the 
young apprentice. 

What if George Dyer were, in truth, the murderer? 
If he were capable of such a heartless crime, would 
he hesitate to strike down a boy who stood in the 
way of escape? 

Steve shivered with sudden dread. But he did not 
try to escape. He only stared at his captor, and 
waited to see what the latter would do next. 

Dyer did not have the reputation of possessing a 
great stock of courage. Nor was he, ordinarily, a 
passionate fellow. Hence it seemed absurd to Steve 
to even suspect him of so bold a crime. 

Nearer drew the pursuing footsteps. 

George Dyer suddenly flung one hand over the 
boy’s mouth, and quickly lifted him in his arms. 

The young man was possessed of more than ordin- 
ary muscular power, and Steve was utterly helpless 
in his arms. 

The foreman darted through an open doorway, 
and deftly closed and locked *the door. 

They were now in the great, silent press-room. 
Several lights glimmered faintly, and the large 
cylinder presses looked like silent monsters, petri- 
fied in the midst of their labors. 

Motionless pulleys and shafting; motionless belts, 


30 


UNDER, HIS THUMB. 


looking faint and shadowy in the dim light. Great 
stacks of printed and unprinted papers on every side. 

On, past these objects, ran George Dyer, with the 
apprentice hugged close in his arms. Steve might 
have uttered a shout for help, but prudence forbade 
his doing so. He realized that his captor’s mind was 
in a condition of desperation, and that it was unsafe 
to goad him too far. 

Reaching the end of the main press-room, Dyer 
passed through another open door-way, and thus 
entered the engine-room. 

Here could be heard a faint hissing of steam from 
a loose valve. 

The monster engine, like the other machines, was 
silent and motionless, as though all were paralyzed 
with the horror of the dreadful crime which had 
been enacted above. 

Beyond this was another apartment, the last in 
that end of the building. Here were boilers where 
the power for running the presses was generated. 
Here the hiss of steam was more pronounced. 

On the threshold of this room the fugitive halted, 
and cast a penetrating glance forward. He half ex- 
pected to see a fireman sitting in the broken chair 
opposite the boilers. 

But the chair was vacant. No figure started up to 
dispute his flight. 

Here Dyer set Steve upon his feet, and closed the 
door between the boiler and engine-rooms with his 
left hand, while he clung to the boy with the other. 

This was a massive iron door for protection against 
fire. But it was provided with no lock or bolt. 

But the foreman was not long in finding means 
for fastening the door. Upon the floor he found a 
piece of steam pipe, and he thrust this through the 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


31 


handle of the door, wedging it in place with a block 
of wood. 

Now he was satisfied that no ordinary effort from 
the other side could succeed in forcing admittance 
to the boiler-room. 

Once more he confronted Steve with the low ex- 
clamation : 

“Now let them take me if they can!” 

The lad still maintained his coolness, although he 
realized that he was in danger. 

“Do you expect to keep them out that way?” the 
lad questioned. 

“I can, for a time.” 

“And then what?” 

“Then they won’t find me here.” 

“What are you goin’ to do with me?” 

“That depends.” 

“Depends on what?” 

“Whether you promise not to tell how I escaped.” 

“Got a secret way to git out of here, have you?” 

“I have a way, yes.” 

Steve glanced swiftly around the room. But it 
was only dimly lighted, and he could detect no spot 
by which it was possible for a man to escape from 
the room save by the door. 

“Do you promise?” Dyer repeated. 

“Supposin’ I do?” 

“I will leave you here, and when the officers break 
in you will be free.” 

“What shall I say to them?” 

“Make up any kind of a story you please.” 

“Make up a lie, and help to hide a murderer, eh!” 

The young man clutched the boy’s arm more 
tightly again, and hoarsely said : 


32 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“You wrong me. I have committed no crime. It 
was not I who shot Hiram Waldron.” 

“Do you mean it?” 

“It is true, Steve. I am innocent.” 

The boy was silent a moment, his brain intensely 
active. He suddenly exclaimed : 

“Are you truly innocent, George Dyer?” 

“As innocent as you are.” 

“Then I know what the racket is. I know why 
yer are so ’feared of being caught.” 

“Why?” 

“ ’Cause yer knows who fired the shot. I guess you 
seen it done. That’s why.” 

“I admit it, Steve ; I witnessed the crime,” said the 
young man, in a low, trembling voice. 

There was a moment of intense silence, and then 
he added : 

“I should not have admitted this even to you, had 
you not already guessed the truth. Will you prom- 
ise, now, not to betray me?” 

“That would be helpin’ to shield the murderer 
from justice,” Steve declared, shaking his head. 

“You will do so much for me!” 

“No, I won’t, and don’t you forget it.” 

“Is your decision final?” 

“Yer can wait a week, if yer think I’ll change my 
mind. I ain’t in no partickler hurry.” 

These words had scarcely passed the boy’s lips 
when he was suddenly lifted in the arms of his cap- 
tor, and borne swiftly across the room. 

“Help — help!” shouted the lad, assailed by a des- 
perate fear. 

But the thick walls sent back his cry with a dead 
sound, and he knew that it could have reached the 
ears of no one outside. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


33 


George Dyer stooped and grasped an iron ring 
which was fastened to a small, square section of 
floor. 

He raised the section, disclosing a black, yawning 
opening. 

Steve struggled desperately to escape from the 
powerful arms of his captor. 

But in vain. And again he shouted for help, with 
the same hopeless result as before. 

Then, despite his resistance, despite his cry for 
mercy, the boy was thrust downward through the 
opening — down into the black abyss below. 

For an instant Dyer clung to the lad’s collar, al- 
lowing him to hang in suspension. Then he released 
his hold, and the youngster was sensible of the aw- 
ful horror of dropping down, down through invisible 
space. 

He struck with a shock, and then his senses for- 
sook him, partly from terror and partly from the vio- 
lent contact of his head with the hard earth upon 
which he had fallen. 

Nearly an hour passed before he had fully regained 
his senses ; and it required another hour to clamber 
up the wet, slippery wall that helped to support that 
end of the building. 

Several times he made the attempt, only to fall 
back again, and add to the bruises from which he 
already suffered. 

And when he had at last succeeded in drawing 
himself up through the opening into the boiler-room, 
he was so exhausted that he sank down upon the 
floor and lay there a long time, faint, weak, and 
breathless. 

At length he recovered and sprang to his feet. 


34 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


For a short space he had slept, overcome by exhaus- 
tion, and the sleep refreshed him wonderfully. 

Then he glanced about him in sudden terror, lest 
Dyer should reappear and again consign him to the 
dark space below. 

But the young foreman was not there. At the 
same time he discovered that the door of the boiler- 
room was open, while the piece of steam-pipe with 
which it had been fastened lay upon the floor. 

Steve seized this, feeling that with it he could 
make a desperate defense, if necessary. Then he 
made his way back through the engine and press- 
rooms, past the silent monsters whose clangor of 
life was accustomed to shake the massive building 
from top to bottom. 

As the boy made his way toward the stairs he 
imagined that he saw a dark figure skulking in his 
rear. 

This caused him to quicken his footsteps. A back- 
ward glance showed him that the skulking figure 
likewise moved more quickly. 

There was no longer any doubt. The boy rea- 
lized that he was pursued, and, his nerves weakened 
by the severe strain to which they had been sub- 
jected, he bounded swiftly up the stairs — swiftly 
along the passage toward the counting-room. 

And after him glided the shadowy pursuer. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


35 


CHAPTER V. 

STEVE AND THE DETECTIVE. 

As Steve Lawton neared the door of the counting- 
room his foot struck an obstacle upon the floor, and 
he fell headlong. 

He was on his feet in an instant, however, and 
confronting his pursuer. 

The latter sprang toward him with outstretched 
hands, but he came suddenly to a halt as the young- 
ster threateningly brandished the piece of iron pipe 
and exclaimed : 

“If yer lay a hand on me I — I’ll strike!” 

The man, who was one of the policemen set to 
watch for Dyer, ejaculated : 

“Hi! it’s the boy!” 

“Hope yer didn’t take me for a girl. Suthin’ must 
ail your eyes if ye did,” Steve retorted. 

“We were looking for you as well as the other 
chap,” said the policeman, making a feint of seizing 
the lad’s arm. 

“Don’t you try that, I tell you. I won’t be pulled, 
’cause I haven’t done nothin’. Hands off, I say.” 

And the piece of steam-pipe cut the air with a 
warning whiz. 

The policeman recoiled, somewhat impressed by 
the youngster’s belligerence. 

“Don’t you know any better than to strike an offi- 
cer?” he fiercely demanded. 

“I ain’t goin’ to be arrested, that’s all.” 

“Tell me where Dyer has gone.” 


36 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“I don’t know.” 

“Mighty innocent, aren’t you, my boy? Perhaps 
we can find a way to make you own up.” 

“Jest try it, if yer think so. If ye can make me 
tell anything I don’t know, go ahead. But you’ll 
have a funny time of it, I can tell ye that.” 

The policeman was not angered by the boy’s de- 
fiance. In truth, he rather admired Steve for his 
grit. At the same time he was convinced that the 
boy had been with Dyer, and that he knew the hid- 
ing-place of the latter. 

Of course, a policeman could not think of giving 
up to a youngster like this one. And he now con- 
cluded that he had dallied with the boy long enough. 
So, with increased brusqueness of tone, the officer 
said: 

“Come, come — no more fooling! Put down that 
pipe.” 

“Won’t do it!” was the terse retort, as Steve 
grasped his weapon the more tightly. 

“Drop it!” in a fiercer tone. 

“Nary!” 

The officer sprang upon the boy as though he 
would tear him to pieces. 

Down came the piece of steam-pipe with a resound- 
ing thwack on the policeman’s shoulder. 

But the man was so much taller than his young 
adversary that the weapon did not strike him 
squarely, and much of the blow’s force was broken. 

Still the officer was maddened by the blow, and 
exercising all his strength and agility he succeeded 
in seizing the weapon and wrenching it from the 
lad’s grasp. 

Then he grasped the boy by the throat and forced 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


37 


him back against the wall, holding him thus until he 
was black in the face. 

At this juncture the policeman was treated to a 
startling surprise. 

A pair of powerful hands seized him from behind, 
lifted him clear off the floor, whirled him aloft with 
dizzy swiftness, and then sent him reeling toward 
the other end of the passage. 

The astonished policeman recovered his feet and 
glanced about him in a dazed fashion. 

He saw Steve Lawton standing at a little distance ; 
and near the boy was a slender, thin-faced man re- 
garding both through his spectacles. 

In the door-way stood Mr. Blain. 

“Who — who did that?” the policeman demanded, 
as soon as he could recover his speech. 

“Perhaps I did,” the thin man replied, in a mild 
tone. 

“You! Well, I guess not.” 

“Why not I?” 

“I could spin two men like you as I would a couple 
of tops.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“I am pretty sure of it.” 

“Well, you may try spinning me, if you really 
think you can do it. But I would advise you to in- 
sure yourself against accidents before you begin. 
There is always more or less risk in experiments of 
that kind.” 

The policeman advanced, bending a penetrating 
look upon the thin, mild-voiced man. The passage 
was rather dimly lighted ; but as he drew nearer he 
suddenly remembered that he had seen this same 
spectacled man before that day. He recalled, at 


38 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


the same time, that a brother officer had said, in 
answer to a query of his : 

“ That thin chap? He is the new detective that 
has been waking snakes around here lately. Croly 
they call him. Strongest man in New York, so they 
say. A regular lion in weasel's skin." 

The policeman abruptly paused, and in a tone of 
respect exclaimed : 

“I — I guess I did make a mistake, sir. That is, if 
you are Croly, the detective?" 

“I am Croly, the detective," was the mild response. 
“You had no right to be so rough with the boy, and 
I thought it would be well to practically show you 
the effect of harsh usage. Did you like it?" 

“The lad struck me, and refused to submit to au- 
thority." 

“I saw nearly the whole affair, so you need not 
explain. The boy is plucky and wide awake. You 
tried to bulldoze him when you had no right to do 
so. He knew his rights, and stood up for them. That 
is the case in a nutshell. If you are not satisfied re- 
port the case at headquarters, and I will appear in 
behalf of the boy." 

“Let it go, sir — let it go," the policeman hastily 
said, adding: “But I found him skulking in the 
basement, and I fancy he can tell us what has be- 
come of the missing foreman if he tries." 

The policeman turned away, leaving Steve alone 
with Mr. Blain and the detective. 

The latter advanced and laid one hand upon the 
boy's shoulder, saying, kindly: 

“You look as though you had seen rough hand- 
ling, my lad." 

Steve looked alertly into the face of the detective. 

Only a few months since he had been picked up 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


39 


from the street by Mr. Waldron, who was a benevo- 
lent man, and fond of giving struggling and op- 
pressed ability a chance in the world. 

Steve had knocked about the streets all his life. 
He had been kicked and cuffed until he developed a 
resolution to stand up for his rights. He had been 
cheated and abused by men of whom better conduct 
was expected. Hence he became suspicious of every- 
body, and especially so of those who assumed a 
pleasant tone in addressing him. 

Therefore it was not strange that he received the 
kindly remark of the detective with a feeling that 
the latter merely meant, in some way, to get the best 
of him. 

“I guess I ain’t hurt very bad, mister,” he said, 
with a shrug of indifference. 

“So you would have liked it as well if I had left 
you to fight it out alone?” Croly asked. 

“I would have come out of the racket somehow. I 
generally fights my own battles.” 

“Don’t be offish, my boy. I am told that Mr. Wal- 
dron, who has been so foully murdered, was your 
patron.” 

“What’s a patron, mister? I ain’t a college per- 
fessor, to talk such high-toned lingo.” 

“Mr. Waldron was a friend to you — took you from 
the streets and made you an apprentice in his print- 
ing-house, did he not?” 

“He did, mister. And he paid my board out’n his 
own pocket, he did. He was square, an’ don’t you 
forget it.” 

The tremor of the boy’s tones showed how deep 
was his feeling upon this point. 

“And of course you keenly feel the loss of this 
noble friend of yours,” Croly continued. 


40 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“You bet I do. And if I knew who killed him, I’d 
get a bowie knife and a revolver and Fd be re- 
venged. I wish I could do suthin’. I wish I was a 
fly-cop !” 

Croly placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders, 
and bent eagerly toward him. 

Steve could feel the wonderful power of the man’s 
gaze upon him. And, strangely enough, his boyish 
heart warmed with a sensation of confidence and 
liking for the detective. 

“You can do something, my boy,” Croly declared, 
speaking in low, earnest accents. “You can help 
me to find the miscreant who murdered your noble 
friend. You can turn detective, my lad — as my as- 
sistant !” 

“Can I? D’ye mean it, mister?” 

“Hush, not so loud. Detectives have to learn, as 
their first lesson, the art of keeping still. You must 
obey my instructions, and for the present do nothing 
except what I may direct.” “ 

“Well, what is the first thing I may do?” 

“Tell me where you have been since morning.” 

The boy glanced toward the door, where Mr. Blain 
was standing, and in a low voice he said : 

“I’m willin’ to tell you anything you want to 
know, but I’d rather not say anything before others. 
You can tell ’em all yer please.” 

Croly spoke to Mr. Blain in a low tone ; that gen- 
tleman nodded, and the detective and boy were 
shown into a small private office. 

“Now tell us your story,” said the detective, fac- 
ing the lad. 

Steve complied, omitting not a single detail. 

Whether Croly considered the matter important 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


41 


or otherwise his face did not indicate. Without com- 
ment he abruptly said : 

“Now I wish you tell me all you know concerning 
a certain pretty compositor employed in this estab- 
lishment. They call her Stella, I believe.” 

Before Steve could reply, both were thrilled by the 
cry, in a shrill, female voice : 

“Belease me, sir. Help! help!” 


42 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A girl’s resolution. 

“That’s her — Stella — now,” Steve exclaimed, 
springing excitedly to his feet. 

He leaped to the door, but Croly was there before 
him, with his hand upon the knob. 

“Wait — softly,” the detective warned. 

He noiselessly opened the door, and stole silently 
across the threshold, followed by Steve. 

Half way down the passage they saw two figures 
struggling. One was a tall, slender young man, 
whose face would have been handsome but for its 
flush of dissipation, and that indescribable expres- 
sion which plainly tells the story of a reckless 
career. 

The girl was slender and graceful as a gazelle. 
Her face was of exquisite beauty and dazzling com- 
plexion. Just then it was flushed with anger, and 
her dark eyes flashed with defiance. 

The young man was clinging to her slender wrist, 
which she was struggling to free from his grasp. 

“You— you never looked so pretty in all your life, 
Stella, ’pon my word,” the young man drawled as 
Croly and his companion stepped into the passage. 

“Let me go, sir,” she cried, half in pleading, half 
in command. 

“You needn’t be so dused crusty with a fellow, my 
girl. I like you ever so much, ’pon my word. I — 
I’m honest, now. Been watching my chance to tell 
you so for an age, but you were so shy that I couldn’t 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


13 

get a chance, except when all the other girls were 
’round. What makes you so shy of me, Stella? 
Haven’t I always treated you well?” 

The young man was sadly under the influence of 
liquor — so much was evident at a glance. 

Yet he seemed to be deeply in earnest. Although 
he firmly clung to the girl’s wrist, he otherwise ad- 
dressed himself as respectfully as his condition 
would permit. 

“You know why I avoid you, Clarence Blain,” she 
replied. 

She had ceased struggling, and stood flushed and 
breathless before him. 

“You think I ain’t in earnest, I s’pose,” he ques- 
tioned, in his drawling tones. 

“You are an idle, dissipated fellow, and no decent 
girl could respect you,” was the sharp retort. 

“That so? I declare, Stella, you don’t pick your 
words, do you? But never mind — I like you better 
for being blunt. Drink more’n is good for me, I ad- 
mit. But you could reform me if you’d try. You’re 
pretty and good, and bright as a button, Stella. I’d 
make you my wife in a minute if you’d only consent, 
and I’d dress you better’n any woman in New York 
— I would, by Jupiter!” 

Again the girl attempted to release her arm, but 
4n vain. 

Then, quick as a flash, she struck her persecutor 
a stinging blow upon his cheek with her free hand. 

He recoiled with an ejaculation of pain, at the 
same time involuntarily releasing his grasp upon 
her wrist. Before he could recover it she darted 
away from him, fleeing along the passage. 

But her liberty was of brief duration. She at- 


44 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


tempted to open a door to continue her flight, but 
found it locked. 

The delay allowed the young man to overtake her, 
and this time he was too angry to restrain the fierce- 
ness of his clutch. 

He caught her roughly by the shoulder and drew 
her rudely backward. 

But scarcely had he done so when he recoiled in 
dismay. 

For the desperate girl had drawn a revolver, and 
thrust the muzzle close to the face of her persecutor. 

“Will you release me now, sir?” she cried. 

Although her voice trembled with anger, yet the 
irrepressible sweetness of its tones could not be 
wholly disguised. 

Clarence Blain recoiled, freeing the girl’s arm. He 
was partially sobered by her unexpected menace. 

“You carry a pistol, Stella?” he gasped, staring at 
her with distended eyes. 

“You see I am not defenseless,” she returned. 

“But you wouldn’t shoot me, I know? Such a 
pretty, sweet girl as you are would never shed blood !” 

“Gentle, am I?” 

The girl’s voice had a strange sound as she said 
this, and she laughed in an odd, mirthless fashion. 

“Perhaps I should be if I but had the chance,” she 
continued, with sudden bitterness. “I have had to 
fight against a merciless destiny ever since I can re- 
member, and that isn’t the sort of training your 
sweet-tempered girls receive. If I have no one to 
defend me, I must defend myself. That is why I 
carry a pistol, and I know how to use it if need be.” 

The young man listened to her words in mute won- 
der. 

He was charmed by the play of her sweet lips ; by 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


45 


the dainty color that came and went in her cheeks ; 
by the resolute glances of her dusky eyes. 

You’re a stunning fine girl, anyhow!” the young 
man exclaimed, involuntarily. 

“I do not like your compliments, Mr. Blain, and I 
wish you to go away and leave me.” 

“But I’m really your friend, Stella. I won’t say 
such things if you don’t fancy them, but I’m bound 
to stand by you anyhow, and if anybody tries to 
abuse you I — I’ll settle with him. Mind that, Stella 
— I’ll stick by you!” 

This was plainly spoken under a good* impulse 
prompted by genuine admiration. 

The words had scarcely passed his lips, however, 
when he felt a hand clutch his collar from behind, 
and he was pushed at a rapid pace along the pas- 
sage. 

He tried to turn his head to see his assailant ; but 
in vain. He only obtained a glimpse of a figure not 
so tall as himself. 

He uttered a flood of threats and profanity. He 
kicked and squirmed with desperate fury. 

But, struggle as he might, he was pushed forward 
so rapidly that he could scarcely keep on his feet. 
Nor did the one who was handling him so much as 
deign a verbal response to his ejaculations. 

He saw Steve Lawton run ahead and open a door. 

The next moment he was thrust forcibly across the 
threshold, the door was closed and locked behind 
him, and he realized that he must postpone the at- 
tempt at reconciliation with Stella to a more favor- 
able occasion. 

No one witnessed this maneuver with greater as- 
tonishment than did the girl. 

In another moment she was confronted by Croly, 


46 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


the detective, who regarded her through his spec- 
tacles with quiet interest. 

He did not seem in the least out of breath from his 
exertion. ' 

“I thought I would save you the trouble of shooting 
the wretch/’ Oroly coolly declared. And he added, 
in a tone of friendly interest: “That fellow has an- 
noyed you before, has he not?” 

“A great many times,” she replied. 

“Is he the son of Mr. Blain?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Does the father uphold the son in persecuting his 
lady compositors in this fashion?” 

“He minds nothing about it. Clarence Blain has 
always done as he pleased about everything.” 

“Not always, I think. Just now, for instance!” 
and Croly smiled. 

“You must be very strong, sir,” the girl returned, 
regarding the stranger curiously. 

“And you are very resolute, miss,” he said, in re- 

ply- 

“I stand up for my rights, that is all.” 

“You are an orphan, I take it?” 

“I have no one to defend or look out for me.” 

“I didn’t ask you if you had friends. I asked if 
you were an orphan.” 

Stella eyed him with sudden suspicion. 

“You are a stranger, sir,” she retorted. 

“Have you any objections to telling me if your 
parents are living?” Oroly persisted. 

“I suppose I am not obliged to answer the ques- 
tions of a curious stranger.” 

“I see you do not wish to tell me. Never mind — 
I can find out. What is your name, please?” 

“Stella Gale.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


47 


“How long have you worked in this printing 
office?” 

“Nearly four years.” 

“You were young when you began, then?” 

“I was fifteen.” 

“You called upon Mr. Waldron in the counting- 
room quite early this morning, did you not?” 

The girl’s face grew deathly pale, and she recoiled. 

“Who said I did?” she demanded. 

“I saw you. You seemed to wish to conceal your 
identity, "hut you failed to disguise- your walk. So, 
when you came back to work I noticed you. We de- 
tectives have to notice some fine points, you see?” 

“Are you a detective, sir?” 

“I am at work on the mystery enshrouding the 
murder of Mr. Waldron. So you must give me all 
the light you can on the subject.” 

“I know nothing about it, sir.” 

“Hid he appear as usual when you were with 
him?” 

“I haven’t admitted that I was the vailed lady 
whom you saw.” 

“And I haven’t said the lady was vailed. I said 
you were disguised. Caught, my girl — but don’t be 
alarmed. Just tell us all about it.” 

Stella trembled violently. She was a keen-witted, 
fearless girl. But somehow this spectacled man 
made her feel strangely defenseless. It seemed as 
though he knew whether she were telling all or only 
a part of the truth every time she spoke. 

“I went to see him upon private business,” she 
said, her glance falling before the fixed gaze of the 
detective. 

“Concerning yourself?” 

“No, sir — about a friend,” 


48 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“You have a friend, then?” 

“Why do you thus closely question me? Must I 
tell all my secrets to an utter stranger?” 

“I am seeking evidence concerning the crime, and 
it appears you were the last person to see the victim 
before the murder took place.” 

“Still, I know nothing about it, sir. I was at my 
case setting type when the shot was fired, and you 
may be sure, sir, I was terribly shocked.” 

“Of course you were. By the way, did you have 
that pistol with you when you held the interview 
with Mr. Waldron?” 

The girl still held the weapon in her hand. She 
now thrust it hastily from sight. 

“I did not,” she replied. 

“May I look at it?” Croly asked. 

“For what purpose?” 

The detective’s voice did not change in its expres- 
sion in the least as he answered : 

“Because I fancy it is the weapon used by Mr. 
Waldron’s murderer!” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


49 


CHAPTER VII. 

A THRILLING ENCOUNTER. 

It was no wonder that Stella was startled by the 
remark of the detective. 

He spoke very quietly, yet with a positiveness of 
tone that seemed like a menace. 

“You are mistaken, sir. It is impossible!” she 
gasped, her face growing deathly pale. 

“If I am mistaken it can be easily proved, if you 
are frank in the matter,” was the quiet response. 

Steve Lawton until this moment had been standing 
by without taking any part in the interview ; but 
now he impetuously exclaimed : 

“She don’t know nothin’ ’bout the murder, mister 
— I’ll stake my head on that.” 

“I can manage this part of the case, my boy; so 
don’t worry, and don’t jump at conclusions. The 
truth is a prize that cannot be won at a jump.” 

Croly turned to the trembling girl, and continued : 

“Will you let me examine the weapon?” 

“Will you return it to me? 5 ’ 

“Certainly.” 

She reluctantly relinquished the weapon, which 
was an old one, of somewhat unusual pattern. It 
was a five-shot revolver, and there was a cartridge in 
each chamber of the cylinder. 

This fact would have baffled many detectives ; but 
Croly quietly removed the cylinder, and placed his 
finger upon a carriage that appeared much brighter 
than the others. 

“One shot has been fired to-day; that cartridge 


50 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


fills its place. Barrel of pistol is smoked, and 

Look at this !" 

He produced from his vest pocket a bullet, and 
deftly pressed it in at the muzzle of the weapon. 

“Fits— doesn't it? And an odd size at that. This 
is the missile that took the life of Hiram Waldron 
this morning ; and without doubt it was shot from 
this weapon !" 

“By Jinkins!" ejaculated Steve. 

Stella stared at the detective in dumb amazement. 
She took the weapon mechanically as he returned 
it to her. 

“If you wish to keep such a weapon as that— an 
implement of foul murder— you may do so," Croly 
declared, as he gave up the revolver. 

Instantly she returned it, exclaiming: 

“No, no; I do not want it. Oh, what shall I do?" 

“Tell me how you came by the pistol," was the 
prompt reply. 

“It was given me long ago." 

“It is yours, then?" 

“Yes, sir." 

“You did not have it with you when you went to 
see Mr. Waldron this morning?" 

“No, sir." 

“Where was it, then?" 

“At my boarding place." 

“Where is that?" 

“At No. — East Fifteenth street." 

“And you found it in its usual place when you re- 
turned?" 

“Yes, sir." 

“That will do, so far as the weapon is concerned. 
But I must know something more about you. You 
say your name is Stella Gale?" 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


51 


“Yes, sir.” 

“Is your father living?” 

“I believe he is.” 

“Where?” 

“I do not know just where he is.” 

“In this city?” 

“I think so.” 

“If your name is Gale, I suppose his is the same?” 

Stella again felt that those spectacled eyes were 
reading her very thoughts.” 

“What has my father’s name to do with this 
crime?” she asked, in a breathless way. 

“Nothing, only I suspect that you are deceiving 
me a little, or trying to. Your father is a vagabond, 
isn’t he?” 

A painful flush dyed the girl’s face and neck. 

“Yes, he is a vagabond,” she faintly admitted. 

“And he has been arrested several times for 
drunkenness and petty theft?” 

“Yes.” 

“And upon these occasions he gave his name as 
Brandon — Carl Brandon. Am I not right?” 

“You know everything, sir. But he told me to 
take the name of Gale — my mother’s name — to 
shield me from the disgrace that his would bring 
upon me. He didn’t wish me to be an object of scorn 
to those with whom I am obliged to associate. And 
now you have exposed me. Are you merciless, sir? 
Have detectives no regard for human suffering?” 

“Wait, my poor girl,” Croly kindly said. “I have 
not exposed you to the scorn of your friends, and do 
not intend to. Steve, here, will keep your secret. 
But you see it is important that I should know all 
these things, because Carl Brandon was a former 
partner of Blain & Waldron, and was, I am in- 


52 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


formed, a bitter enemy of both these gentlemen.” 

“He did not kill Mr. Waldron, sir. I would stake 
my life on his innocence,” cried Stella, in accents of 
dismay. 

Instinctively she realized that this quiet, spec- 
tacled detective was weaving a subtle web of evi- 
dence against her vagabond father. 

“I have no reasons for suspecting your father,” 
was the ready reply. “But I must follow all these 
little clews, and not drop them till they prove to be 
misleading. Now, tell me when you saw your fa- 
ther last?” 

“More than a week ago.” 

“Where?” 

“I met him on the street.” 

“That will do for the present, Miss Stella. And in 
future, should you need me to defend you against 
Clarence Blain or any other persecutor, I shall be at 
your service. In the meanwhile do not hide any- 
thing from me. I wish to prove you perfectly frank 
and truthful.” 

The detective turned to Steve, and said : 

“Come, it is approaching nightfall, and I have a 
great deal to do.” 

They returned to the private office, where Croly 
gave the boy some specific directions. 

When Steve was alone he slapped his knees in the 
intensity of his satisfaction. 

“Detective business knocks type-stickin’ higher ? n 
a kite, by Jinkins it does!” he exclaimed. 

Some hours afterward, it being quite late in the 
evening, Croly, the detective, emerged from his 
lodgings so completely disguised that no one would 
have recognized him. 

He was attired as a dandy, with a mustache ex- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


53 


quisitely waxed, a silk hat, cane, and lavender-hued 
gloves. 

He wore eye-glasses instead of spectacles. For, 
whatever his guise, Croly always took care to wear 
glasses of some kind, to conceal the real expres- 
sion of his eyes. It matters not how skillfully one 
maybe disguised, the eyes will invariably betray 
the person to any keen observer. But if no one ever 
looks into the eyes, and therefore never beholds 
their true expression, how can this feature betray 
the one disguised? 

The detective, in his dandy make-up, entered a car 
of an elevated train going down town. As it chanced 
several passengers got out, while none except Croly 
got into this particular car. 

Therefore, as the detective was about to take a 
seat, and the train rumbled on its way, he noticed 
that the car contained only a single occupant besides 
himself. 

This passenger sat upon one of the four cross-seats 
in the middle of the car. He was a rather large man, 
wore a slouch hat and coarse garments, and his at- 
titude was one either of dejection or profound 
reverie. 

Croly made his way to the seat facing the one oc- 
cupied by this stranger, and seated himself directly 
opposite the latter. 

The man instantly raised his head, and bent a 
glance of surly displeasure upon the dandified per- 
son before him. 

He had a coarse face, and small, bleary eyes. 
There was a scar across his left cheek; his beard 
was black and bristly ; his hair long and unkempt. 

For a full minute the two gazed fixedly at each 


54 : 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


other. Then the rough stranger uttered a bull-dog 
growl. 

“Pretty fine, ain’t ye!” he exclaimed. 

“Rather fine, to be sure. But we average all right, 
don’t we?” Croly returned, purposely assuming an 
effeminate tone. 

“What yer mean by that — hey?” with another 
bull-dog growl. 

“I mean that you will never be hung for civility, 
sir.” 

The ruffian half rose to his feet, clenching his big, 
hairy hands. 

“Yer mean it?” he demanded. 

“I mean it.” 

“D’ye know who I am?” 

“I haven’t the least idea.” 

“I’m Bill Leary.” 

“Quite a name, to be sure.” 

“And I don’t take sass from any dude with eye- 
glasses, I don’t.” 

“What do you do in such a case?” 

“I chokes their wind off!” 

Croly betrayed not the least trace of alarm or 
other emotion. He tipped his head backward a lit- 
tle and significantly drew his fingers across the lo- 
cality where the windpipe is supposed to exist. 

Then he said : 

“I don’t believe you could do that thing to me.” 

“Don’t ye, eh?” 

“I really do not.” 

“’Cause why?” 

“I shouldn’t let you. That is why.” 

Croly’s boldness astounded the burly ruffian, who 
had evidently been drinking just enough to make 
him quarrelsome. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


65 


“Ho, ho! — wouldn’t let me!” he cried, in his harsh 
tones. 

“I never fancied the thought of dying in that 
way,” Croly declared, seemingly insensible of the 
belligerent attitude of the ruffian. 

“Guess yer want me to eat ye alive, don’t ye?” 

“I shall not let you do that, either.” 

The ruffian pounced fiercely upon the slender, de- 
fiant individual before him. 

But his outstretched hands came in contact with 
the seat only, for the detective, with amazing agil- 
ity, had leaped aside, and before the stranger could 
turn upon his dandified foe, the latter had delivered 
a quick, terrible blow with his clenched hand. 

With a growl of pain and rage the ruffian reeled 
backward against the side of the car. 


56 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FLIGHT OF THE VAGABOND. 

This startling stage of the quarrel was reached 
just as the train was slowing up at a station. 

Bill Leary, as the ruffian called himself, had barely 
recovered an upright posture when the guard an- 
nounced “Twenty-third street,” and the train came 
to a stop. 

Several passengers entered the car, and Croly 
quietly said to the ruffian, as the latter turned upon 
him as though with the intention of renewing the 
conflict : 

“I think we had better defer a settlement to some 
more convenient time and place.” 

Leary’s belligerent appearance had already at- 
tracted the attention of the new passengers, and he 
realized that this was no time to indulge in revenge. 
He sank, flushed and panting, into the seat opposite 
the detective, and bent his shaggy head toward the 
latter. 

“Wait till I have a fair chance, and I’ll fix ye!” 
he growled. 

“Oh, I’m willing to wait,” Croly returned, coolly 
twirling his watch-chain. 

“I’d like to know what ye wanted of me, anyhow !” 
I^eary said, regarding the seeming dandy with a sus- 
picious gaze. 

“Who says I want anything of you?” 

“Why did ye come in and sit down in front of me, 
then?” ’ 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


57 


“I suppose I can take any seat I choose, if it’s un- 
occupied.” 

“Ye sot and stared at me till ye got me mad.” 

“I had a right to do that, too.” 

“I hate a dude, anyhow.” 

“And I despise a big, blustering loafer. So we’re 
even.” 

“Wait till I have a fair chance, and I’ll make ye 
take back them words.” 

Croly vouchsafed no reply. The train roared on its 
way, stopping at the frequent stations until Grand 
street was reached. 

There the detective alighted and descended to the 
street. 

He paid not the slightest attention to the ruffian ; 
yet he knew that the latter also alighted, and that 
he dogged his footsteps as he hastened down the 
street. 

He was now penetrating one of the most lawless 
localities in the city. The appearance of the build- 
ings became less and less reputable. The day had 
been quite warm, and the sidewalks were thronged 
with ragged children, shabby women, and reckless- 
looking men, having emerged from the rookeries in 
the vicinity for a breath of fresh air. 

Well dressed peonle became more and more rare. 
At the corner of Jackson street a drunken fight was 
in progress. 

Croly gave the combatants a single glance, and 
then paused. 

One of them, although sadly intoxicated, yet pos- 
sessed an air of respectability, strangely .contrasting 
with his surroundings. 

He was no better dressed than his assailant, who 
was a reckless-looking foreigner. But his face, as 


58 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


it was illumined for an instant by an adjacent gas- 
lamp, looked almost like the face of a gentleman. 

His beard was shaggy, it is true. His hat lay upon 
the ground where it had fallen, and his long hair 
was unkempt. 

Despite all these drawbacks, the man did not bear 
that impress of bestial coarseness that marked the 
faces of most of those around him. 

“And that is Carl Brandon, the outcast ! ” Croly 
exclaimed, in a low, interested tone. 

He cast a hasty glance backward. He saw Bill 
Leary slouching toward him. 

A horse-car jingled past the corner at the moment, 
and came suddenly to a halt. As it did so a girl 
alighted, and darted straight through the throng 
surrounding the combatants, not pausing until she 
reached the side of Brandon. 

Croly instantly recognized the girl as Stella, the 
beautiful daughter of the vagabond. At the same 
moment her sweet tones reached his ears, saying : 

“Come with me, father — quickly, before the police 
see you. Please come.” 

Brandon was a large, strong man, and he had ap- 
parently proved his superiority in the conflict, for 
his antagonist had retreated a few paces, and was 
wiping blood and grime from his face. 

“Yes, yes, Stella,” he returned. 

And together they hastened away from the spot. 

The throng of roughs gave way before them, im- 
pressed, no doubt, by the dazzling beauty of the girl. 

Croly had witnessed the strange scene with a fas- 
cinated interest, admiring the girl, and impressed 
by the appearance of the vagabond. 

But as he saw them moving away, he remembered 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


59 


that it was in quest of Carl Brandon that he had 
come to this locality. 

The detective started toward them, bent upon se- 
curing an interview with the strange man. 

But at the moment a shout was raised in his rear. 

“A fly-cop — down with him!” 

The utterance came from Bill Leary, and its effect 
upon the crowd was magical. 

Croly did not for a moment suppose that the 
ruffian had suspected his real character. The cry 
had been merely prompted by the desire to bring 
the roughs down upon the seeming dandy, not be- 
cause Leary really knew or thought him to be a de- 
tective in disguise. 

An angry murmur ran through the motley throng. 
Some darted off into alleys and door- ways; some 
stood motionless to watch the affair; and a half 
dozen of the most desperate characters made a rush 
toward Croly. 

In an instant they were between him and those he 
wished to overtake, hiding them from view. 

“Out of the way, you rascals!” the detective ex- 
claimed, as he was confronted by his reckless foes. 

“Down with the fly-cop — quick, ’fore he gives the 
alarm!” cried Leary. 

Croly saw that he was in for it. He must fight his 
way through the throng of desperadoes, and there 
was no time for parleying either. 

He swung his cane over his head, and brought it 
down with cutting force. 

It was not so much of a toy as it looked, as was 
speedily proved, for the one on whom the first blow 
descended was felled to the ground. Another was 
sent reeling into the arms of his comrades ; and the 
others fell back in dismay. For it seemed to them 


.60 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


that, instead of one cane, the detective was wielding 
half a dozen, so rapidly did the blows fall. 

At that instant a police-signal sounded from some 
point near at hand, and like magic every rough dis- 
appeared. 

Croly had come off victorious in the brief, fierce 
fight, but the delay cost him dearly enough, for 
Stella Brandon and her vagabond father had com- 
pletely disappeared. 

For an hour the detective patiently searched the 
vicinity for some sign of the vagabond. 

But in vain. At last he accosted a patrolman 
whom he encountered at a corner. 

“Pretty girl with a ragged tough,” the patrolman 
repeated, scratching his head meditatively. “Yes, 
I saw them,” he declared, positively. 

“How long ago?” 

“Three-quarters of an hour, I should say.” 

“Which way were they going?” 

“Into the building across the way. Ho. 37, I guess 
it is.” 

“And they haven’t come forth again?” 

“Ho.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I should have seen ’em if they had. Mighty pretty 
girl. Your folks, mister?” 

“My folks, yes!” 

The policeman eyed the putative dandy suspic- 
iously as the latter sauntered across the street. 

“My folks, just as much,” muttered the policeman. 
“I guess I won’t swaller that yarn.” 

As Croly neared the door- way in question he per- 
ceived a tall figure walking leisurely away. The tall 
man wore a slouch hat and was smoking a cigar. 

“If I could do two things at once I would shadow 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


61 


that chap, too,” Croly said to himself, gazing after 
the retreating figure. 

He paused quite near No. 37, and glanced up at 
the shuttered windows. 

It was an old dilapidated building of dingy brick. 

“Stella took her father in there to hide him from 
the cops,” was the detective’s mental decision. 
“And when it gets later they will come out again, 
and I shall have them all nice and snug. If I go in 
now to look for them they may give me the slip. It 
will pay me to wait outside.” 

In accordance with this reflection, Croly took up 
a position in a deserted door-way opposite. 

For an hour he patiently waited, feeling perfectly 
confident that his patience would be rewarded. 

And he was not disappointed. 

The door of No. 37 opened softly, and a man came 
forth — alone. 

Croly thought at first that it was a stranger. But 
his vision was too keen to be easily deceived. 

It was Carl Brandon who had come forth, changed 
only by the combing of his tangled hair and beard, 
adding to the air of respectability which belonged 
to him by nature. 

It was the gentle hand of his faithful daughter 
that had wrought this change in his looks, beyond a 
doubt. 

“That girl is a trump, and no mistake!” Croly ex- 
claimed, half aloud. “But where is she? Going to 
wait until he gets to a place of safety, it is likely. 
Well, I must have a word with him before he gives 
me the slip.” 

The detective started to cross the street. Even as 
he did so, however, Carl Brandon darted around an 
adjacent corner with unlooked for agility. 


62 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Croly bounded in pursuit. 

Reaching the corner, he was in time to see the fu- 
gitive pass around another, this time turning into an 
alley. 

The detective quickened his pace, fearing to lose 
sight of Brandon altogether. 

Then, as ill-luck would have it, he was halted by 
a policeman. 

“Out of my way, you idiot !” Croly breathlessly ex- 
claimed. 

He would have pushed the officer aside and con- 
tinued his chase without a word of explanation, but 
for the probability of being halted again farther on. 

“What’s your hurry?’’ the policeman demanded. 

“Look, and be satisfied,’’ Croly returned. 

He gave the policeman a single glimpse of his 
badge ; the officer gave a grunt of surprise, and the 
detective was off again like a rocket. 

In through the alley he dashed at a furious pace. 

To again lose his man after all his weary search 
and patient waiting was a result not to be desired. 

Croly ran as he never ran before. And he was 
presently rewarded by seeing the shadowy figure of 
the fugitive but a short distance ahead. 

At the same time he became conscious of a start- 
ling fact. 

Some one else was running upon the other side- 
walk — some one who could run as swiftly as the de- 
tective. 

The latter caught a glimpse now and then of this 
mysterious stranger, who seemed also to be in pur- 
suit of the vagabond. 

The strange pursuer was tall, and wore a slouch 
hat, the same whom Croly had observed skulking 
away from the door-way an hour before. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


63 


On and on ran the fugitive, with his two pursuers 
close upon him. It was a thrilling race. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 

Croly, the detective, saw that, at the present rate 
of gaining, the race could last only a few moments 
longer. 

The fugitive seemed to be in a somewhat ex- 
hausted condition, doubtless on account of his recent 
debauch. His limbs tottered as he ran; he stag- 
gered several times, and seemed about to fall upon 
the sidewalk. 

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw how close 
were his pursuers. Then he suddenly darted across 
the street, thus bringing him nearer the unknown 
pursuer upon the opposite sidewalk. 

Croly instantly divined that the stranger was a 
confederate of Brandon, and that the latter was 
crossing over to seek his protection. 

Whether the detective was correct or otherwise in 
his conjecture will presently appear. 

As it was, Croly redoubled his efforts to overtake 
the vagabond before the supposed friend of the latter 
could do so. 

He, too, increased his speed. As he did so, Carl 
Brandon darted into a dark passage only a few 
yards distant from the unknown pursuer. 

The latter followed, with long, swift leaps, dis- 
appearing; into the black depths of the passage. 

Croly was a fearless man, but not a reckless one. 
He did not really believe Brandon to be capable of 
deliberate murder, vagabond though he was. Yet 


64 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


there was no telling to what depths he had fallen, 
nor to what extremities he might go if goaded to des- 
peration. 

Therefore, believing the mysterious stranger, who 
had followed Brandon unhesitatingly into the pas- 
sage, to be a confederate of the fugitive, the detec- 
tive deemed it the height of recklessness to leap 
blindly into the gloomy passage, perhaps to be met 
by a treacherous bullet from his foes. 

Hence he resorted to prudence and skill rather 
than bravado. 

He paused at the entrance of the passage, shield- 
ing his person behind the corner of a building. 

For an instant he listened, but all was still. This 
seemed to confirm his suspicions that Brandon and 
his supposed confederate, finding flight useless, were 
lying in wait for him, at least with the design of 
temporarily rendering him incapable of continuing 
the pursuit. The street was deserted, the hour being 
late. A better time or place for a desperate encoun- 
ter could not be imagined. For, at best, the most 
dangerous localities in New York are poorly guard- 
ed at night. 

Croly was prudent, but he had no intention of 
abandoning the pursuit. This detective, slender, 
wiry, and keen-eyed, had followed criminals with 
the persistency of a hound through the greatest of 
dangers. He would not shrink from his duty, how- 
ever perilous it might be, no more than an ordinary 
workingman shrinks from his labors in the midst of 
security. 

The detective crouched close to the entrance of the 
passage, and peered in. 

Not a thing could be seen. Perfect silence reigned. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


65 


The distant tramp of a policeman upon his beat was 
clear and distinct. 

Croly took something from his pocket and tossed it 
into the passage. 

Instantly there was a low “swish” as the missile 
struck the flagstones, accompanied by a brief, yet 
brilliant illumination. 



Every object in the passage was revealed, but so 
briefly that of course only a hasty view of the situa- 
tion ould be obtained. 

Croly saw one or two barrels, set out for the rub- 
bish with which they were sure to be filled from the 
adjacent tenements. 

Beside one of these barrels a man crouched, with 


66 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


his back toward the entrance of the passage. But 
there was only one person hiding there. Whether 
that one was Carl Brandon, or the tall stranger who 
had followed him thither, the detective did not stop 
to debate. He had an opportunity, and he used it. 

Croly’s little form bounded into the passage, 
straight toward the crouching figure ; and an instant 
later he was grappling with the unknown. 

The latter had gained his feet despite the sudden- 
ness of Croly’s attack. And the detective became 
speedily aware that his antagonist was fully his 
match in strength, agility, and skill. 

With locked arms and shut teeth the two men 
swayed to and fro, each exerting his powers to the 
utmost. Not a sound passed their lips save their 
hard, quick breathing ; while the gloom was so dense 
that they could barely distinguish each other’s out- 
lines. 

For a full minute the struggle continued thus, 
neither gaining a single point of advantage over his 
adversary. The stranger was a giant in proportions ; 
Croly was undersized. But it was training, rather 
than bulk, that counted in a contest of this kind. 

The stranger suddenly released his hold, and 
stepped back. Croly, with lightning-like quickness, 
drew and leveled a revolver to checkmate what he 
supposed to be a treacherous attempt on the part of 
his enemy. 

As he did so the place was dimly illumined by a 
small steady light. It came from a pocket lantern 
in the hand of the stranger. And simultaneously the 
latter exclaimed: 

“As I suspected — Mr. Croly.” 

The latter stared at the dark, impassive face be- 
fore him in amazement. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


67 


“The Hindoo detective!” he ejaculated, although 
he was only half certain of the fact. 

Hyjah, the Hindoo, whose marvelous successes in 
clearing up the most profound criminal mysteries 
were the talk of the city, possessed a plain face, 
which at first glance did not strike one as indicating 
great intelligence. Yet there was a conscious power 



in his presence, a dignity of bearing which could 
not fail to impress the stranger. 

Upon his impassive face none of his emotions 
were ever expressed, as they are in most faces. 

“I think we won’t fight any more,” the Hindoo re- 
marked, calmly, shutting off the light from his lan- 
tern, 


68 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“It is hardly worth while, that’s a fact,” Croly re- 
plied. 

And they clasped hands with a sincere cordiality, 
which even the thought of rivalry did not cool. 

“We were both in pursuit of the same game, it 
seems,” Hyjah observed, a moment later. 

“And we have both missed it,” Croly replied. 

“For the present, yes.” 

“I suppose you intended to arrest the man?” Croly 
asked, carelessly. In reality he was intensely cu- 
rious to learn why the Hindoo detective was in pur- 
suit of Brandon, the vagabond. Could it be possi- 
ble that Hyjah, the Hindoo, was at work so soon on 
the printing-house mystery? If so, how did he ob- 
tain a clew implicating Carl Brandon in the affair? 

These queries flashed through the mind of Croly ; 
and at the same time he was impressed by a convic- 
tion that, if he were to solve this mystery first, he 
could do 1 so only as a test of skill between himself 
and the great Hindoo. 

“I did not intend to arrest the fugitive,” the latter 
declared, in response to Croly's question. 

“May I ask, then, why you were chasing him?” 

“For the same reason that you were, I fancy.” 

“What is that?” 

“To question him about the Waldron tragedy. 
That was my object. Will you be equally candid, 
Mr. Croly?” 

“It is useless to deny what you suspect. But I con- 
fess that I am surprised.” 

“Surprised by what?” 

“That you have undertaken this case.” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” 

“There is no objection, of course. But I did not 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


69 


see you about the scene of the murder to-day, and I 
fancy I watched the locality pretty closely.” 

“There is a very good reason why you failed to 
notice me.” 

“What is that?” 

“I have not been within a dozen blocks of the 
place.” 

“How does it happen, then, that you were follow- 
ing Carl Brandon?” 

Hyjah made an odd sound in his throat that 
seemed like a suppressed laugh. 

“I knew about the old quarrel, that is all. In fact, 
I was not greatly surprised when I heard of the mur- 
der. Probably, Mr. Croly, both of us could place our 
finger on the guilty man. The thing is, to prove it. 
Evidence is what I am after.” 

Croly was more and more surprised each moment. 
Could it be that the Hindoo detective had the case 
down so fine as he claimed? Or was he merely play- 
ing at “bluff” in the hope of getting rid of his rival? 

Croly was on his guard. He admired the impas- 
sive Hindoo, but he was not afraid of him. They 
had tested each other physically. In mental skill 
the test was only begun. 

In the struggle, Croly’s disguise had become dis- 
arranged, else Hyjah would not have recognized 
him so readily. 

“Yes, it is evidence that we require,” Croly re- 
plied, in ready acquiescence. He added, with the 
greatest apparent frankness : “I suppose you suspect 
whither this Brandon disappeared so suddenly?” 

“I have an idea, yes.” 

“That he skipped out at the other end of this pas- 
sage?” 

“Is that your idea, Mr. Croly?” 


70 UNDER HIS THUMB. 

“I didn’t say it was.” Then Croly added, after a 
brief pause: “I think you and I can do better than 
try to ‘pump’ each other.” 

“So we can. And another thing, while we’re talk- 
ing. This game must be played fairly. Neither of 
us wish to win by fraud, although I promise you 
that I shall give no points. You are a younger de- 
tective than I am. But age doesn’t count in this 
business, any more than size does. If you win, it 
will be because of superior skill. If I am the victor, 
it will be the fruit of riper judgment and experience. 
Are you satisfied with this rating of our abilities?” 

“I am satisfied.” 

“Then good-night.” 

“Good-night.” 

They again clasped hands ; and the next moment 
Croly knew that he was alone in the passage. 

He groped his way to the other end of the alley, 
and peered cautiously forth. 

As he did so, he saw something white, like a slip 
of paper, flutter past his face and alight at his feet. 

He stooped and picked up the object. It was a 
narrow strip evidently cut from the margin of a 
newspaper. 

Hastening to an adjacent lamp, he examined the 
slip. 

It bore the following words, in a coarse scrawl : 

“I spin a web to catch fly-cops in. 

“Spider.” 

Croly read the queer message ; and then pretended 
to study it closely by the light of the lamp. 

But in reality he was glancing upward through 
his spectacles at a small, dark, oval object that pro- 
truded over the edge of a low, flat roof close at hand. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


71 


The oval object was motionless for a full minute. 
Then it began to move. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE BOY DETECTIVE. 

It was nearly midnight when the figure of a boy 
stole cautiously to a rear door of the great printing- 
house of Blain & Waldron, and there paused in an 
alert, listening attitude. ! 

The boy was Steve Lawton, the apprentice, and he 
was acting upon instructions from Croly, the detec- 
tive. 

“By Jinkins, how still it is!” he exclaimed, in a 
cautious whisper, glancing out into the deserted 
street, and then up at the big, dark windows of the 
building. He carefully avoided looking toward the 
counting-room, which was the scene of the recent 
tragedy. Not that he expected to see the ghost of 
the murdered man — of course not. But it would be 
rather natural for any of us to look the other way 
under the circumstances, especially at the hour of 
midnight. 

Steve was plucky, and he had something to do. 

“I’m a detective now — a reg’lar fly-cop, chock full 
of mystery and ideas!” he soliloquized, to further 
brace his nerves for the ordeal. 

“I guess there’s nothing to be afraid of, anyway,” 
he continued, producing a bunch of keys, and pro- 
ceeding to try them one by one in the door. 

“And if there was anything, detectives don’t back 
down. Common street-cops get frightened some- 
times, and skedaddle, but fly-cops jest look careless, 
and keep their eyes peeled, and never think of 


72 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


backin’ down. That Croly is awful smart, by cracky ! 
And I guess he thinks I’ve got some sand, or he 
wouldn’t put a job of this sort onto me to begin with. 
I wonder if he ain’t ’round watchin’ to see if I back 
out? I wish he was, and I knew it. Then I shouldn’t 
feel quite so awful lonesome. I guess — eh!” 

He had found the right key at last, and inserted it 
in the lock. 

But it would not turn. 

What was the matter with it? 

Steve was perfectly sure he had th6 right key. He 
had known which one to use all the time, and had 
merely tried the others to gain time and — courage. 
This was the last in the bunch. It was of peculiar 
shape, and there could be no mistake about it. 

The key seemed to fit perfectly, yet it would not 
turn back the bolt. 

“That’s queer, by Jinkins!” the boy muttered, 
tugging away at it with all his strength. 

In his earnestness he grasped the knob with his 
left hand, working the key with his right. In so 
doing he accidentally turned the knob, and the door 
swung open. 

Then he understood why it had bothered him so, 
for the door had not been locked at all. 

“Somebody must be inside — somebody besides the 
watchman,” the boy exclaimed, craning his neck to 
peer into the dark interior of the building. 

All was still within, and there was not a gleam of 
light anywhere. 

Steve entered, and closed the door, then stood mo- 
tionless to listen, surrounded by the impenetrable 
gloom. 

He could hear only the loud beating of his own 
heart, and he wished he could not hear that, for it 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


73 


seemed to him that he was not displaying so much 
courage as a detecive ought. 

“The night watchman don’t go in or out by this 
door/’ he reasoned. “And if he did, he wouldn’t 
have left it unfastened. There must be somebody 
else here, unless they forgot to lock the door to-night, 
and that isn’t likely. Where is the watchman, any- 
how? He has to walk over the building once in so 
many minutes, and he carries a lantern. He must 
be asleep. If he is, he’ll get bounced if I give him 
away.” 

Steve groped his way along the passage to a door, 
which yielded to his touch. Crossing this threshold, 
he paused to light the small lantern which he had 
brought. 

The lantern was a bull’s-eye, furnished him by 
Croly ; and as he sent the focused rays ahead as he 
walked, the lad felt more like a Iona fide detective 
than ever. If he only had a pistol now, his outfit 
would be complete. But that was forbidden him by 
the prudent detective. Boys carrying knives and 
revolvers were all well enough in stories, Croly said, 
but when it came to real life it was risky business. 

Steve was upon the ground floor, where much of 
the folding and lighter job work was done. He was 
startled once by seeing what he thought was a shape- 
less monster rise from amid the gloom of a distant 
corner ; but the rays of his bull’s-eye thrown upon 
the object, showed it to be only a Gordon press — the 
same on which he was learning to exercise his legs. 

But the next moment he really did see something 
alive — something that glided out through an open 
door in a stealthy, skulking fashion. 

If Steve had stopped to think he would have pur- 


74 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


sued a more prudent course. But curiosity impelled 
him to hasten in pursuit of the figure. 

He did not speak, and he advanced noiselessly. 

He saw the figure reach the stairway leading to 
the basement, and pass down out of sight. The boy 
would have followed had he not, in passing over a 
latticed hatch opening into the basement, caught a 
gleam of light from below. 

Instantly he closed his own lantern, and stooping, 
peered down through the opening. 

He saw a man’s figure pass under the hatch, com- 
ing from the stairs. He saw a lantern hanging from 
a hook, and another man seated under it eating a 
lunch. 

Steve could scarce repress an exclamation of 
amazement as he recognized the two men. For the 
one eating was George Dyer, the foreman, and the 
other was Clarence Blain. Dyer sprang to his feet 
as the latter confronted him. 

“So you — you have come,” he huskily gasped. 

“Got your message, and of course I was curious to 
know what you had to say,” Blain answered, with 
his accustomed drawl. For a wonder he was sober, 
and had been from the hour of his unique encounter 
with the detective. 

“Did you come alone?” 

“I intended to. But I’ve a notion that there’s been 
a ghost or something following me ever since I came 
inside. Beastly lonesome here at night, isn’t it?” 

“Since the crime, yes. But I shall get used to it, 
I guess. I must haunt the premises at night for the 
present, until this mystery is cleared up.” 

“Is that what you wished to tell me? ’Pon my 

word, you took a heap of trouble ” 

“Wait, and hear me,” Dyer interrupted. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 75 

There was a more attentive listener over their 
heads than they suspected. 

“I want to ask you,” he continued, “if you have a 
suspicion concerning the murder of your father’s 
partner?” 

“Thought likely you had something to do with it, 
since you skipped out of sight so promptly.” 

“You are mistaken. I had no motive for doing it. 
Yet, if they should catch me I should be convicted 
beyond a doubt.” 

“And you sent for me to get me to sympathize 
with your case, and thus to help you out of your dif- 
ficulty?” Clarence Blain shrewdly asked. 

“No, I do not. I expect you to believe me guilty 
like the rest.” 

“No reason why I shouldn’t.” 

“Then why did you not bring a policeman with 
you?” 

“Oh, I don’t happen to be mean. And besides, I 
wouldn’t take the trouble unless I was sure. What 
do you want of me?” 

“I wish you to take a message to your father.” 

“Why didn’t you send it same as you did to me?” 

“Because it is too important to be written, or to in- 
trust to any one not interested.” 

“Verbal message, then?” 

“Yes. And you must not treat it carelessly— you 
must not ” 

Dyer hesitated, and Blain, now intensely inter- 
ested, asked: 

“I must not what?” 

“Lose your head with that inside of it.” 

“Get drunk, you mean?” 

“That is it. You might drop a word in that condi- 


76 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


tion, you understand, which you would give your 
right hand to recall. ” 

“So I might.” The young man’s face grew pale 
with sudden, intense feeling, and he said: “You’d 
better not trust me, George. I’m a poor stick to de- 
pend upon.” 

Dyer placed one hand on the other’s arm, and 
eagerly said : 

“You must do this thing, Clarence Blain, and you 
must not yield to your fatal weakness.” 

“Better not trust me,” the other reiterated, shak- 
ing his head. 

“I must.” 

“Write the message, and I’ll carry it.” 

“I dare not.” 

“Write it in cipher.” 

“Cipher messages are solved by skilled detectives. 
There must be no tangible evidence, nothing for the 
detectives to get hold of.” 

“Then send by some other messenger. Name the 
man whom you can trust, and I will send him to 
you. But the worst of all is a fellow like me. Why, 
I shall be drunk before another sunset.” 

“You will resist the temptation when I have im- 
parted my secret.” 

“Don’t trust me.” 

“I must, Clarence. Listen — you shall serve me, 
and you will be prudent, though you have never 
been before.” 

Steve, breathless in his eagerness, crouched closer 
to the opening, intent upon catching this precious 
secret, which had a bearing upon the murder mys- 
tery. 

But, to his intense disappointment, George Dyer 
bent his lips close to the ear of Blain, and rapidly 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


77 


uttered the message, but in a whisper which was 
wholly inaudible to the eager young detective. 

The latter, in his disappointment, rose quickly to 
his feet— so quickly that he accidentally rattled the 
iron lattice, sending particles of dust down upon the 
heads of those below. 

Instantly both men sprang toward the stairs, 
which they rapidly ascended. 



STEVE ACCIDENTALLY BATTLED THE IKON LATTICE. 

Steve realized that he was in close quarters. 

He ran swiftly away from the spot, scarce heeding 
whither he went. His greatest dread was of again 
falling into the hands of George Dyer, of whose mer- 
cilessness he had had sufficient experience already. 

In the darkness he collided with various objects, 
bruising his face and limbs. Twice he fell at full 



78 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


length. He reached a staircase leading upward, 
and hastened to mount thither. 

His pursuers separated, to make the capture of 
the fugitive the more certain. As it chanced, Blain 
hit upon the right track, and followed Steve directly 
to the upper floor. 

Here were the composing-rooms. And here Steve's 
flight was abruptly terminated by a door which was 
locked. 

He heard his pursuer close behind. He turned, 
hoping in the darkness to dart past the other, and 
thus double on his track. 

But again he stumbled and nearly fell, betraying 
his position. Before he could recover himself he was 
seized by a pair of strong hands. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


79 


CHAPTER XI. 

A THRILLING EXPERIENCE. 

“I’ve got you, you rascal!” exclaimed Clarence 
Blain, clinging tenaciously to the boy. 

Steve struggled furiously, but his captor was 
stimulated by no ordinary impulse, and exercised a 
degree of strength of which he was ordinarily in- 
capable. 

“Stand still, or I will choke you!” he threatened, 
seizing the lad’s throat. 

Steve realized that to struggle was but a waste of 
strength that he might use to some purpose if he but 
bided his time. 

He had dropped his lantern, and the slide had 
partly opened of itself. 

Young Blain quickly recovered the lantern, and 
in another instant had turned the full glare of the 
bull’s eye upon the boy’s pale face. 

“Ha! Steve Lawton ! ” he ejaculated. 

“Who said it wasn’t?” the youngster retorted, 
panting from his exertions. 

“What were you doing here at this time of night?” 

“I came after something.” 

“What was it?” 

“My business.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Guess not. I was sent here by somebody that had 
a right to send me.” 

“My father?” 

Steve purposely hesitated, that young Blain might 


80 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


infer that his guess was correct. Then the boy eva- 
sively replied : 

“I didn’t say he did, mister.” 

“Did my father send you here?” Clarence Blain 
repeated, at a loss how to dispose of the lad now 
that he had caught him. 

“I’ve no right to tell you.” 

“You must tell me.” 

“How can yer make me? If you know how to make 
a man talk, just show me how yer does it.” 

Blain gave Steve an angry shake, and then said : 

“You were listening just now at the open hatch 
over the basement.” 

“S’posin’ I was?” 

“What did you hear?” 

“Heard you and another fellow talking.” 

“Did you see the one who was with me?” 

“Yes.” 

“And recognized him?” 

“Course I did.” 

“Did you hear what was said?” 

“A part of it.” 

“What was said?” 

“I ain’t going to repeat all you was saying. ’Twas 
something about a message that he wanted you to 
carry to somebody, and you was ’fraid you would 
get drunk and lose it. That was the amount of it, 
and I guess you will get drunk and lose yer mes- 
sage if you’ve got one.” 

Blain looked relieved. It appeared that the boy ob- 
tained only an imperfect idea of what had passed 
between George Dyer and himself, and from this 
there was no great danger. 

“You do not know what the message was, do 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


81 


you?” the young man pursued, to make assurance 
doubly sure. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Very well, then— no harm is done. But you must 
not say anything about this affair to anybody.” 

“Anything about what?” 

“About seeing George Dyer and myself here to- 
night.” 

“I dunno as I care anything about it. I won’t 
promise not to speak of it, though.” 

“You must promise — I mean, you will.” 

Blain abruptly changed his tone from one of com- 
mand to one of persuasion. At the same time he 
produced a silver dollar, and held it temptingly be- 
fore the boy’s eyes. 

“You will promise for four or five of these, won’t 
you?” the young man asked. 

“No, I won’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t fancy having my tongue tied up in that 
way. Somebody might offer me ten dollars to tell 
what I overheard, and then I’d lose money, don’t 
yer see?” 

“I will give you ten dollars to promise.” 

“Nixie, mister! You better not be too flush with 
yer old man’s money before he pegs out. He may 
need it.” 

“You’re an impudent young rascal. I will see that 
you are discharged from my father’s employ.” 

“Go ahead, if you’re as mean as all that. I guess I 
can find a job more excitin’ than standin’ on one leg 
and runnin’ a Gordon press with the other.” 

Blain saw that the youngster was incorrigible, 
and he reflected that the boy probably knew noth- 


82 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


ing worth repeating, and therefore it was useless to 
palaver with him longer. 

So he was on the point of releasing Steve when the 
sound of approaching footsteps caused him to wait. 

In another moment George Dyer, the fugitive 
foreman, appeared, and espying the apprentice, ex- 
claimed : 



DYER SPRANG TO BLAIN’S ASSISTANCE. 


“So that is the eavesdropper! Lucky you caught 
him, for he is a dangerous youngster. ” 

Steve’s heart sank within him. He knew that 
Dyer, in his desperation, would not treat him gently. 
He knew that he was in a decidedly unpleasant pre- 
dicament . 

Agaiu he struggled to break away from his cap- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


83 


tor, but in vain. Dyer sprang to Blain’s assist- 
ance, and together they had no difficulty in holding 
the struggling boy. 

“I do not believe he heard anything of import- 
ance,” Blain declared, in an undertone to his com- 
panion. 

“He is a shrewd lad and a sly one,” Dyer replied. 
And he added, wren a nervous shrug, “I am running 
great risk in thus exposing myself, and ought to re- 
turn at once to my hiding-place. But I cannot do 
so until we have safely disposed of this boy. He must 
not go at liberty, at least not unless he will bind 
himself by a solemn promise not to disclose anything 
that he has seen or heard this night.” 

“Will he keep a promise if he makes one?” 

“I am confident he will.” 

“What do you say, Steve?” Blain asked, looking 
down into the face of the boy. 

“I have nothin’ to say,” was the grim reply. 

“Will you not keep the promise?” 

“When I make one I will.” 

“You must yield to us, and at once. You know 
how you were served when you refused to yield to 
me,” said Dyer, sternly. 

“I know that you’re a pair of howling big cow- 
ards, and I ain’t goin’ to let either of you drive me. 
That’s what I know.” 

“There is no use — we must dispose of him,” de- 
clared the foreman, casting a nervous glance over 
his shoulder, as though he momentarily feared cap- 
ture by the police, whom he knew were on the look- 
out for him. 

“How shall we do it? I cannot lend a hand in any- 
thing too — too desperate, you understand,” declared 
Blain, in some apprehension, lest he, too, were be- 


84 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


coming too deeply involved in a criminal proceed- 
ing. 

“Help me to blindfold and gag the boy, and I will 
see to the rest / 5 Dyer replied, that look of fierce re- 
solve which Steve had noticed upon one other occas- 
ion coming into his countenance. 

The boy racked his brain for a plan of outwitting 
his captors. 

Blain still clung to his arm, while Dyer crossed to 
the other side of the room to obtain some stout cords, 
for which he knew just where to look. 

Steve realized that this, probably, would be his 
last chance. 

Accordingly he resorted to a maneuver which he 
had used more than once in tussles with boys older 
than himself in his career as street Arab. 

He bent his head slightly toward his captor, and 
then made an energetic upward spring. 

Blain had no time to restrain the movement, and, 
before he could recoil, the boy’s head struck him al- 
most between the eyes with terrific force. 

The young man involuntarily loosened his hold 
upon the youngster’s arm with a low ejaculation of 
pain, for he was fairly dazed by the violent shock. 

Steve was ready for the opportunity. Another 
spring and he was free, while at the same time he 
snatched the lantern, and then darted out through 
the open door- way. 

His own head fairly spun under the contact with 
that of his adversary, and it was only by a powerful 
effort of his will that he was able to direct the course 
of his flight. 

With the aid of his lantern he avoided stumbling 
over obstacles; and, with his thorough familiarity 
with every part of the great building, he was able to 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


85 


make his way with bewildering rapidity through 
composing and press-rooms and passage-ways, until 
he could no longer hear the footsteps of his pursuers. 

The boy paused at last, breathless and trembling, 
in the passage leading to the counting-room. 

He glanced toward the door of the latter, unable 
to restrain a shudder of vague fear. 

The door was closed, and probably locked. Yet in 
imagination he could see the stark, lifeless form of 
his benefactor, as he had discovered it lying upon 
the floor, behind the desk-railing. 

Steve had as yet only partially accomplished the 
purpose which had brought him hither. 

That purpose was to see if George Dyer returned 
to the printing-house to obtain several articles 
which, in the haste of his flight, he had left in the 
main composing-room; and also, if possible, to as- 
certain the way by which the fugitive made his en- 
trance and exit from the building. 

The first part of this errand Steve had already ac- 
complished. But the secret exit from the premises, 
which was evidently known only to the young fore- 
man, was yet undiscovered. 

Now that Dyer knew of the lad’s presence in the 
printing-house, it would be doubly hazardous to 
shadow the former to his hiding-place. 

Steve Lawton knew that the building occupied by 
Blain & Waldron was an old one, and that it had 
previously been occupied for various purposes. And 
he had once heard that there was a secret room or 
passage somewhere, which had been designed for 
some unknown purpose by the eccentric builder. 

If such a passage existed, what was more proba- 
ble than that George Dyer had discovered the en- 


86 


TJNDEK HIS THUMB. 


trance to it, and that the discovery now served him 
as a clever concealment from his foes? 

The boy had not mentioned this conjecture to Croly, 
the detective, because he had only thought of it. 

Having regained his breath, the lad made his way 
cautiously toward the basement stairs. 

His thrilling adventures did not weaken his cour- 
age. Instead, he was more resolute than at first. 

He found the piece of steam-pipe which he had 
used once before as a weapon, and with it grasped 
firmly in one hand and the lantern in the other, he 
descended boldly to the basement. 

As he did so he was thrilled by the sound of 
stealthy footsteps moving away from him. 

He nearly closed his lantern, and cautiously fol- 
lowed. 

A moment later the footsteps abruptly ceased. The 
boy paused, his nerves tingling with excitement. 
Then, with a sense of vague dismay, he heard a mys- 
terious whirring and creaking all about him. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


87 


CHAPTER XII. 

STELLA’S PERIL. 

Stella Brandon watched her vagabond father until 
he passed from view. She did not see the figures of 
the two detectives who followed in swift pursuit, 
however, else she would not have felt so confident 
that he would escape. 

For a moment she lingered at the window of the 
dingy brick building in which she had sought refuge 
with her father when she had led the latter from the 
midst of his drunken companions. Then she turned 
to the tall, slender girl who stood by her side. 

“I have done the best I can for my poor father, 
have I not, Katie?” 

The latter, who was a pretty-faced and warm- 
hearted Irish girl, placed one hand affectionately on 
her friend’s shoulder. 

“To be sure you have, Stella!” she warmly ex- 
claimed, adding: “It isn’t many old topers like Carl 
Brandon that has the likes of you to look after them 
—I’ll say that for you.” 

“You do not blame me, Katie?” 

“Not at all, Stella. Your father would be a gen- 
tleman if he didn’t drink so hard. And he is brave 
and good, too, even when he is that full of brandy 
that he can hardly keep on his feet. Didn’t he knock 
down the young scamp that insulted me on the 
street, and then walk home with me to see that I 
was safe, though he was drunk all the while? I’ll 
never forget that in your father, and I’ll stick by ye 
both as long as the breath remains in me body !” 


88 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Katie Byrnes spoke with a 'warmth that testified 
to her sincerity, her sunny blue eyes flashing with 
Irish resolution. She was an orphan, and, like Stella, 
compelled to fight her way alone in the battle of life. 

“I know you are a true friend, and the only one 
whom I can trust in the world,” said Stella. 

They were silent for a moment; then a distant 
clock struck one. 

“One o’clock, and I must return to my lodgings!” 
Stella exclaimed, in sudden realization that she had 
still something to do.” 

“Wait till morning now. Sure and you wouldn’t 
go back alone at this time of night?” 

“I must, Katie.” 

“But it isn’t safe; and you can stay with me if ye 
will.” 

“No; I must go back. I am not afraid. But there 
is no time to lose. Don’t detain me, Katie.” 

“Sure and you’re a plucky girl, Stella. If ye must 
go ” 

For answer Stella Brandon ran down the long 
flights of stairs to the street door. Kate Byrnes fol- 
lowed, and as she went out upon the almost deserted 
street, her friend said: 

“I shall worry about you, Stella, till I know that 
you got home safe.” 

“You need not do that.” 

“Be careful of yourself, and if you get into trouble 
again ” 

“Yes, yes!” Stella called back, as she hastened 
away. 

As she reached Clinton street she glanced back, 
and tried to make out if her friend still stood in the 
door-way. But at that distance, in the uncertain 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


89 


light, she could not tell whether the door was closed 
or not. 

At the corner she encountered a policeman, who 
paused and looked anxiously into her face. She had 
stopped to listen for the jingle of a horse car bell. 
He seemed to divine what she was waiting for, and 
said in a kind tone : 

“Up car, miss?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Last one just passed.” 

“When is the next?” 

“Not till ’most six o’clock.” 

“Then I must walk. I am sorry to have missed the 
car.” 

She started to move on, but the officer, impressed 
by the beauty and innocence of her face, lightly 
touched her arm. 

“They run all night on Forsyth street, further 
on,” he said. 

“That is out of my way.” 

“Far to go?” 

“Fifteenth street, sir.” 

“I’ll get you a carriage, if you wish. You look 
honest, and you’re pretty. Got a girl of my own 
’bout your age. Isn’t so handsome as you are, 
though.” 

Stella blushed under the kind officer’s compli- 
ments. But she declined his proffered assistance. 

“I can walk — I am not afraid,” she declared. 

And before he could detain her, had he wished to 
do so, she was hastening away. 

She kept on for a number of squares, when she be- 
came aware of a startling fact. 

She was followed. 

A large man, with a slouching gait, trudged in 


90 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


her rear, accommodating his pace to hers, yet grad- 
ually lessening the space between them. 

She walked faster and faster ; she nearly broke 
into a run. Still that tramp, tramp sounded close be- 
hind, her pursuer’s long legs making up in length of 
strides what they lacked in rapidity. 

Hoping to elude him, she turned into a side street, 
at the same time increasing her pace to a run. 



THE MAN PLANTED HIMSELF DIRECTLY IN HER PATH, 
COMPELLING HER TO HALT. 

But tramp, tramp came the heavy footsteps of the 
mysterious pursuer, no longer disguising the fact 
that he was bent upon overtaking her. 

She had barely reached the next street, which was 
a broad and better lighted one, when the man came 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


91 


up with her, bounded past, and then planted himself 
directly in her path, compelling her to halt. 

She attempted to turn aside and pass him. 

But he doggedly interposed his burly figure, gruffly 
saying: 

“Don’t be in such a hurry, girl!” 

“Stand aside, sir!” she breathlessly exclaimed. 

She glanced swiftly up and down the street, in 
the hope of seeing a policeman, but in vain. 

The ruffian, who was no other than Bill Leary, the 
“tough,” whom Croly had encountered this same 
night in the elevated car, seized her arm with one 
large, brawny hand. 

“Your name is Stella Brandon, ain’t it?” he de- 
manded. 

“Let me go!” she cried, struggling. 

“Stand still, or it will be the worse for ye.” 

“You hurt me.” 

“Then quit squirming.” 

Seeing that it was useless to resist, the brave girl 
ceased her struggles, and said : 

“What do you wish, sir? I never saw you before. 
I am in haste to go home.” 

“Is your name Stella Brandon, I asked ye?” 

“I suppose it is.” 

“And you are the gal of that old chap that was 
fighting down on the street to-night?” 

“I am his daughter.” 

“And ye work in the printing-office of Blain & 
Waldron?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I can tell ye something you’d like to know.” 

“What is it?” 

•. “About the murder of Waldron. And about the 
pistol that did the business. Hey !” 


92 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


That she was intensely interested Stella could not 
conceal. The fact that her weapon had been the 
instrument of crime, and that it had been stolen so 
mysteriously from her room, and returned thither 
after the tragedy, was something which not only 
puzzled but troubled her. 

Croly’s shrewdness had discovered the startling 
fact. How did she know but he, or others, would try 
to fasten the crime upon her? That her father was 
suspected she knew already. It seemed to her as 
though the vagabond and herself were being in- 
volved in a labyrinth of condemning circumstances. 

Leary saw at once that the girl was interested. 
This was precisely what he desired. Accordingly he 
released her arm to show that he did not expect her 
to run away. 

She drew away from him, but did not attempt to 
flee. 

“What do you know about the crime?” she asked, 
with tremulous eagerness. 

“I know that Carl Brandon is suspected,” Leary 
replied. 

“He is innocent. He would never do that!” 

“Why shouldn’t he?” 

“He is not so cruel, so brutal.” 

“Maybe he isn’t. But your pistol did the work, 
you know that!” 

“It was stolen from my room, and returned before 
I had missed it.” 

Leary closed one eye with an air of insolent 
shrewdness. 

“Now you’d be surprised if I told you who stole it, 
eh?” he asked. 

“Do you know?” 

“I could make a close guess.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


93 


“Tell me then.” 

“Perhaps I will. But not here, not if I knows my- 
self. Come, and IT1 tell ye.” 

He turned slowly away, beckoning her to follow. 

She did so for a few paces, and then paused. 

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. 

“Where I can tell ye all about this racket ’thout 
being overheard.” 

“I cannot trust you, you are a stranger.” 

“ ’Fraid of me?” 

“I am cautious, that is all. If you have anything 
to tell me, say it here.” 

Leary bent his coarse face toward her, a sudden 
fierceness blazing from his eyes. 

In the dim light she could not see the shrewd cun- 
ning expressed upon his face as he said, in a distinct 
whisper : 

“If ye knows when you’re well used, come along. 
There’s a fly-cop watchin’ us this minute.” 

Stella cast a quick, startled glance up and down 
the deserted street. As she did so a figure skulked 
into an alley, as though in confirmation of the 
ruffian’s words. 

Instantly a dreadful fear flashed upon her — a fear 
founded upon the suspicions which, since first en- 
countering Bill Leary, were gradually taking shape 
in her mind. 

She recalled her interview with Croly, the detec- 
tive, and his seeming belief in her innocence, and 
his proffers of friendliness. 

At the time she had believed him to be sincere. 
But a conviction that he merely desired to gain her 
confidence, that he might afterwards entrap her, 
now possessed her mind. 

She had little reason to trust any one. Once, 


94 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


when her father had committed some' slight misde- 
meanor, an officer had beguiled her into betraying 
the vagabond. She remembered the policeman’s de- 
ception on this occasion, and it was but natural that 
she should distrust Croly, the detective. 

“Fm a hard character, miss,” said Leary, in a 
tone intended to strengthen her suspicions, “and I 
know all the better how to outwit the cops. I tell 
ye, you’re in close quarters. Come, and I’ll see that 
the cops don’t get ye, and at the same time I’ll ex- 
plain how your pistol was stole, and why.” 

Half unconsciously Stella allowed the man to lead 
her away. Assailed by new misgivings, however, 
she again paused. 

As she did so, two dark figures sprang from the 
alley, and ran toward her. 

“Come, quick!” cried Leary. 

And with the speed of a bird she followed the ruf- 
fian in flight. 

A menacing shout from her pursuers added to her 
terror. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


95 


CHAPTER XIII. 
a daughter’s fidelity. 

Stella was not deceived as to the character of the 
ruffian whose lead she was following:. She did not 
doubt the unscrupulousness of the man. She merely 
thought that, from his very character, he would be 
the more likely to aid her in escaping from the offi- 
cers whom she supposed to be in pursuit of her. 
And, under the circumstances, the poor girl had as 
much confidence in the lawless individuals, with 
whom she frequently came in contact, as the shrewd 
detectives, who thought only of running the unfor- 
tunates to earth. 

While, in her terror, she did not hesitate to follow 
the ruffian, she did not intend, however, to intrust 
herself entirely to his care. 

He led her from the street through several dark 
passages, and at last paused at the door of a base- 
ment. 

Their pursuers had, to all appearances, been left 
far behind, bewildered by their rapid turnings. 

“Come, and I’ll see that they don’t get ye,” said 
Leary, unlocking the door and throwing it open. 

But Stella recoiled, saying : 

“I will find a hiding-place. I know nothing about 
this one.” 

“They’ll never look for ye here.” 

“Whose house is this?” 

“It’s where I live.” 

“Do you live here alone?” 


96 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Me and my girl, ’bout your age.” 

“How do I know you are telling me the truth?” 

“No object for me to lie to ye. I don’t want ye to 
fall into the hands of the cops, that’s all.” 

“Why do you care?” 

“Can I trust ye if I tell?” 

“You can trust me.” 

“Well, then, I’m mixed up in the racket myself.” 

“The printing-house tragedy?” 

“Yes.” 

Leary lowered his voice, and continued: 

“I knows a heap more ’bout the business than I 
wish I did. I didn’t do it, mind that; but I knows 
’bout it. Your father and me know each other, and 
we’re good friends, though he is a 'white’ chap com- 
pared with me. But he did me a favor once, and I 
like him. That’s why I want to keep you out of 
trouble.” 

Stella knew that the ruffian’s statement was not 
improbable. Carl Brandon had many a lawless as- 
sociate, and that he had won this man’s regard was 
likely enough. 

Still, there was something so repulsive in the face 
and tones of Bill Leary that Stella could not bring 
herself to trust him. 

“You cannot blame me for not wishing to trust 
myself to a stranger,” she said, in a tone intended 
to conciliate the ruffian. 

“Ain’t I a friend of your father?” 

“I presume you are.” 

“Then what are ye afraid of?” 

“You are a stranger to me.” 

“I helped ye to get away from the cops just now, 
didn’t I?” 

“Yes, and I thank you for it.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


97 


“Now I offer you a place to hide from ’em.” 

“I am not afraid of them. I am used to taking 
care of myself.” 

“And you don’t want me to help you?” 

“I do not need it.” 

“Pretty way to thank a man for lookin’ out for ye. 
You’d been in the station-house by this time if it 
hadn’t been for me!” 

“I might have eluded them alone. Still, I am 
grateful for your kindness. Only I do not wish to 
trouble you further.” 

“No trouble. I want ye to go into this house, and 
then I’ll see that you’re taken to a place where the 
cops won’t think of lookin’ for ye.” 

“But I do not wish to stop. I have a friend wlio 
will gladly conceal me from my foes.” 

Not daring to prolong the parleying, Stella 
sprang away from the basement door, and ran 
swiftly toward the open street. 

Bill Leary speedily proved the insincerity of his 
intentions by bounding in pursuit, with a muttered 
imprecation. 

With all her might she strove to escape. She fairly 
flew over the black pavement. 

She had almost reached the broader street when 
she slipped, half recovered herself, then slipped 
again, this time falling headlong. 

Before she could regain her feet she was seized by 
the ruffian, and lifted in his powerful arms, while 
one great, strong hand was placed over her mouth, 
making an outcry impossible. 

The shock of her violent fall nearly stunned her ; 
and coupled with the realization that she was in the 
power of the brutal ruffian, she became partially un- 
conscious. 


98 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Of that which immediately ensued Stella Brandon 
was only vaguely conscious. The bewilderment 
caused by her terror was deepened to total insensi- 
bility under the effect of an anaesthetic. 

How long she remained unconscious she could 
only conjecture, for when she recovered, her situa- 
tion was so unexpected and novel that it seemed she 
must be dreaming. 

She was lying upon a luxurious couch, in a hand- 
somely furnished apartment. The room was large 
and pleasant, and the furnishings seemed doubly 
rich under the soft gas-light with which they were 
flooded. 

For several moments Stella lay motionless, her 
eyes wandering about the elegant apartment, a sense 
of present comfort lulling her senses to drowsiness. 

But she was soon roused from her apathy by a 
memory of the occurrences preceding her uncon- 
sciousness. She thought of the brutal ruffian into 
whose power she had fallen ; then of the tragedy at 
the printing-house, of her father’s flight, and the 
pursuit of herself, as she supposed, by the officers. 

As these recollections flashed through her mind 
she sprang to a sitting posture, staring about the 
room. She saw a man standing near her — an elderly 
man, whom she instantly recognized. 

“Mr. Blain!” she gasped, recoiling under his 
piercing gaze. 

“What does this mean, Stella Brandon?” her em- 
ployer — for the gentleman was no other — sternly de- 
manded. 

“I — I do not know,” she returned, alarm added to 
her bewilderment. 

“You do not know, eh?” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


99 


“Truly, I do not. Where am I? And how came 
I here?” 

“You are in my house. How you came here is for 
you to explain.” 

“I must have been brought hither by — by ” 

“By whom?” 

“That ruffian.” 



“me. blain!” she gasped, recoiling under his 

PIERCING GAZE. 

“What ruffian?” 

“The one who caught me, and was determined to 
take me to his house.” 

Mr. Blain smiled in an incredulous manner, say- 
ing: 

“Tell me the truth, Stella!” 


100 


UNDEK HIS THUMB. 


“I have told you all I know about it. I was fright- 
ened and must have swooned. And — and I think he 
gave me chloroform, or something of that kind. But 
I have not the least idea how I came in this room.” 

4 ‘You came only as far as my entrance hall. And 
there I found you reeling about, evidently not know- 
ing what you Were doing. I brought you here, laid 
you on the couch, and you instantly dropped asleep. 
I have seen similar cases, even in young and rather 
pretty girls. But I had no thought of one of my 
lady compositors becoming intoxicated. Yet such 
was evidently your condition. Perhaps you can ex- 
plain more clearly now.” 

Stella Brandon sprang indignantly to her feet, 
confronting her employer, an angry light blazing in 
her eyes. 

“That is false, Mr. Blain!” she exclaimed, in a 
low, clear tone. 

“My statement, do you mean?” he returned, in a 
voice that betokened suppressed anger. “Do you 
deny being found in the condition I have described?” 

“I do not, because I remember nothing of how I 
got here. I remember only my flight from the 
ruffian, and his overtaking me.” 

“Where did this take place? Do you remember 
that?” 

“It was in the vicinity of Pitt street.” 

“At what time?” 

“Between the hours of one and two.” 

“About two hours ago, then?” 

“I do not know how long an interval has passed.” 

“Is your home in Pitt street?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Near that point?” 

“No, sir.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


101 


“Then why were you in that locality, alone, at 
such an hour?” 

“I was returning from the house of a friend.” 

“Are you in the habit of being upon the street un- 
til the small hours of morning?” 

“No, sir. But this, sir, was a case of necessity.” 

“Can you explain the case?” 

She hesitated. She knew that Mr. Blain bitterly 
despised her vagabond father. But in no other way 
could she clear herself from the dreadful suspicions 
which the singular circumstances had woven about 
her, than by stating her true reasons for visiting so 
unwholesome a locality at the hour of midnight. 

So she briefly told her story, trusting to the integ- 
rity of her employer, whom she had reason to regard 
as an honorable gentleman. 

“So you were looking after that vagabond father 
of yours, were you?” Mr. Blain exclaimed, in a se- 
vere tone. 

“I was, sir.” 

“Are you in the habit of doing this?” 

“I render him aid whenever it is in my power to 
do so.” 

“Do you think he deserves it?” 

“I know he is worthy in spite of his failings.” 

“Evidently you have inherited from him the 
vicious characteristics which have made him what he 
is. Carl Brandon is a scoundrel, girl, nothing more 
nor less. Do you know who is suspected of yester- 
day’s crime — the murder of my partner?” 

“Not Carl Brandon — he is not guilty !” Stella cried, 
forgetting her own troubles in her anxiety for the 
vagabond whom she knew, at least, was not so evil 
as most people thought him to be. 

“Of course he is, and he will be proven guilty, too. 


102 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Croly, the shrewdest young detective in the coun- 
try, is ‘piping’ the case and he will not allow such a 
graceless rascal to escape. And I advise you, Stella, 
to abandon the wretch to his deserts. You are 
young and pretty, as well as clever at your work, 
and I am willing to do what I can for you. But if 
you persist in aiding you outcast father you will 
probably be arrested for complicity in his crimes. 
Now, take my advice, and renounce him forever.” 

Stella’s brain whirled under the pressure of mys- 
tery, danger, and her loyal resolutions. What did it 
all mean? Was her father really involved so deeply 
by circumstances that he must inevitably be ar- 
rested and convicted? Were that detective’s kind 
assurances really made to gain her confidence? 
Whom should she trust? She covered her face with 
her hands; then she looked into the face of her em- 
ployer, and firmy said : 

“I shall not forsake my father when he needs me 
most. He is innocent, as you wilj, some time be con- 
vinced.” 

Mr. Blain quietly seized her arm and led her to 
the street door, which he opened wide and said : 

“Go, and be a vagabond yourself.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


103 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FUGITIVE AGAIN. 

The dark, oval object protruding over the edge of 
the flat roof, which Croly saw making a movement, 
was the head of a human being. 

Of this the detective was instantly convinced ; and 
with his usual promptness of action he sprang to the 
fire-escape ladder that hung upon that side of the 
building. 

He scaled the ladder with lightning-like rapidity, 
clambered upon the flat roof, and was in time to see 
a small, agile figure drop through an open sky-light. 

The building was an old-fashioned affair, and 
there were several of these windows in the roof, 
which served to admit light and air to the small, 
close rooms below. 

Croly sprang to the sky-light, and was in time to 
prevent its being closed by the person who had 
dropped through. He instantly raised it, and with 
only a hasty glance down into the room below, he 
leaped through the opening. 

The room was lighted by a single gas-jet, turned 
very low. It had only one door. And the being of 
whom the detective was in pursuit was hastily try- 
ing to unlock and open this door. 

But for some reason the key refused to turn ; and 
the fugitive, with a low, defiant cry, turned upon 
his pursuer. 

Croly’s gaze fell upon a dwarfish figure, possessing 
long arms and short legs, and a small, astute face. 

The detective had seen this being before, and upon 


104 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


several occasions. But he had never made inquiries 
concerning him, for in the great city of New York 
one may see many eccentric or deformed human 
beings — most of whom are obscure and inoffensive 
in character. 

The dwarf raised one arm with menacing fierce- 



IN THE DWARF’S HAND WAS CLUTCHED A GLEAMING 
PONIARD. 

ness. In his hand was clutched a small, gleaming 
poniard. 

“Hands off,” he warned, as Croly advanced. 

The detective did not pay the least attention to 
the command. He had taken the trouble and risk to 
follow this strange being to his hiding-place, and he 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


105 


had no thought of beating a retreat without an in- 
vestigation. 

He seized the upraised arm, wrenched the weapon 
from the dwarf’s grasp, and then whirled the di- 
minutive fellow back from the door. 

“Just tell me everything I ask of you, and we 
won’t have any serious trouble,” declared Croly, 
holding his adversary so firmly that the latter could 
scarce make a show of resistance. 

“Let me go,” cried the dwarf. 

“In due time. But tell me your name first.” 

“I am called Spider.” 

“A queer name.” 

“I’m a queer chap, I expect.” 

“It was you who wrote on the slip of paper that I 
picked up on the street a few moments ago?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why did you do it?” 

“To see what you would do.” 

“You have found out, haven’t you?” 

“I didn’t mean to be caught.” 

“What did you mean by saying ‘you spun a web 
to catch fly cops in?’ ” 

“It was a joke.” 

“You had an object in it, and you must tell me 
what it was.” 

“I did it for fun, I say. I wanted to see how you 
would act.” 

“That was not your only object.” 

“Yes, it was.” 

“You knew I was a detective?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you were watching me?” 

“Perhaps I was.” 


loe 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“And you dropped that slip of paper for a definite 
purpose?” 

“I told you why.” 

“No, you have not. Now, see if I cannot tell you 
just why you did that thing.” 

Spider, as the strange being called himself, looked 
a trifle anxious. But he responded, in a defiant tone : 

“Go ahead, if you know.” 

“You dropped that message, or whatever you may 
call it, simply to divert my attention from the work 
I had in hand. You thought I was pursuing some 
one, and you wished the person to have a chance to 
escape.” 

That the detective’s conjecture was correct was 
confirmed by the expression on the dwarf’s coun- 
tenance. 

Croly added : 

“Now, what have you to say about it?” 

“Nothing,” was the laconic response. 

“Whom did you think I was pursuing?” 

“I suppose you know, without my telling you.” 

“Did you think it was Bill Leary, the tough?” 

“I don’t know any such man.” 

“Carl Brandon, then?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“And you wished him to escape?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“He did me a good turn once. I was sick, and 
keeping shady from the cops, and he brought me 
things to eat, and led the cops on the wrong scent.” 

Spider stated the case glibly enough, but Croly in- 
stinctively knew that every word the dwarf had ut- 
tered was false. 

The detective had been informed of Carl Brandon’s 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


107 


many “good turns” from various sources, and he 
had no doubt of most of the accounts being true. 
Probably Brandon, the vagabond, had in this way 
made many friends among the lawless classes in the 
city. 

That the outcast would, upon occasion, befriend 
even a hideous dwarf like Spider was not improba- 
ble. Yet the detective had reason to disbelieve the 
particular statement so glibly uttered by the dwarf. 

“See here, Spider, what do you expect me to do 
with you?” Croly demanded, in a stern voice. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I shall arrest you for aiding in the flight of a 
criminal.” 

In emphasis of his threat, Croly produced a pair of 
handcuffs and made as though he would put them 
on without further parleying. 

“Don’t — don’t do that, mister,” cried the dwarf, 
betraying genuine alarm. 

“Then own up.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Carl Brandon never befriended you in the man- 
ner you have described.” 

“Who — who told you he did not?” 

“I can tell when you are lying. I know that you 
are no friend of Brandon. Now confess, or I’ll take 
you to the police-station as sure as you live.” 

“I admit it. But I don’t see how you knew. I be- 
lieve you’re one of them clairvoyants that read what 
a man thinks.” 

“You will find me as good a clairvoyant as there 
is in the city,” Croly declared. 

This was true, although he claimed no supernatu- 
ral powers in the premises. 

Spider evidently believed in so-called clairvoy- 


108 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


ance, however, for he instantly regarded the detec- 
tive with a look of intense apprehension. 

“Can you read my thoughts?” he demanded, in a 
husky tone. 

“Yes, very plainly. Of course, all things are not 
clear. They never are to professional mind-readers. 
But if you state a falsehood I know it at once. So 
beware.” 

“I’ll own up, mister,” Spider declared, with an 
eagerness which was unfeigned. 

Croly believed that he was now on the eve of ob- 
taining an important confession. But he kept per- 
fectly cool. He must not allow the dwarf to distrust 
his power to discern truth from falsehood. 

“If you have anything to say, don’t keep me wait- 
ing,” said the detective, gazing fixedly into the 
strange being’s face. 

“Carl Brandon never did me a favor. I am no 
friend of his, either. But I didn’t want you to catch 
him.” 

“So I thought; And why did you wish him to es- 
cape?” 

“So as to earn some money.” 

“Somebody pays you to help Carl Brandon to es- 
cape, I suppose?” 

“That is it.” 

“Who pays you?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“I don’t, honest. I’ll tell you how it happened. 
You believe what I say, don’t you?” 

“I believe all that is true. But remember that I 
can detect a lie the instant it passes your lips. 
Your face will tell me, if your lips do not. Your face 
is very easy to read.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


109 


“I will tell you, mister, exactly how it happened. 
Just after dark to-night, as I was standing at a 
street corner, a man comes along, and says to me : 
‘Do you know a man named Carl Brandon?’ and I 
says to him, ‘Yes;’ and then he says, ‘The cops are 
after him red-hot, and I want you to help him to 
keep clear of ’em.’ Then I says, ‘What can I do?’ 
and then he says, ‘You’re sharp as a trap, Spider, 
and I know you can fool the cops somehow, ’ and I 
says, ‘I’ll try it. ’ Then the feller give me five dol- 
lars, and then skips. That’s the whole story, mis- 
ter.” 

“Did you know the man who asked you to do 
this?” 

“Never saw him before.” 

“How did he appear?” 

“Old, with bushy gray whiskers and glasses.” 

“Disguised, of course.” 

“Just what I thought, mister.” 

“And so you wrote that slip and dropped it, to 
throw me off the track?” 

“That’s it.” 

The dwarf grinned, and added : 

“And it worked, too. You followed me, and let the 
other chap go.” 

“Oh, you are a very shrewd fellow, only you got 
caught, and if I should put the darbies on you you 
would laugh out of the other corner of your mouth.” 

“You won’t do that, will you?” 

“No. Now show me down to the door, and I will 
bid you good-night. Stay ! have you the money the 
man paid you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Let me see it.” 

Spider produced a crisp five-dollar bank note. 


110 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Croly glanced at it, and saw a peculiar mark upon 
the back. 

This showed that it came from some person who, 
from a business precaution, marked the bills which 
passed through his hands. 

The detective produced a five and a two-dollar bill, 
and gave them to Spider, saying : 



CROLY RECOGNIZED THE PERSON AS CARL BRANDON, 
THE FUGITIVE VAGABOND. 

“We will swap.” 

“All right. Would like to do it that way for a 
week.” 

“Now I will go.” 

When Croly was once more upon the street he 
said to himself : 



UNDER HIS THUMB* 


111 


“Before Fm twenty-four hours older Fll spot the 
man that was so anxious for Brandon to escape / 5 
Within half an hour he had ascertained that Bran- 
don had taken a ferry to Greenpoint. And without 
loss of time he proceeded to Twenty -third street, 
and was in time for a boat just about to start. 

Morning had dawned when Croly reached a quiet 
highway leading out into the country. 

Scarcely had he come out upon the road when he 
saw a carriage drive swiftly past. It was a doctor’s 
carriage, going in response to an early summons. 

It had scarcely passed the detective when the lat- 
ter saw a man spring forth from among the trees by 
the roadside, and with marvelous agility catch hold 
of the back of the vehicle and swing himself into the 
box, unseen by the driver. Croly, in intense amaze- 
ment, recognized the audacious person as Carl Bran- 
don, the fugitive vagabond. And away sped the doc- 
tor with his unseen passenger. 


112 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


CHAPTER XY. 

STEVE STICKS TO HIS PURPOSE. 

With his nerves excited to the highest pitch, it 
was no wonder that Steve Lawton was greatly start- 
led by the sudden creaking and whirring all around 
him. 

But in a moment he comprehended the truth. 

The line of shafting which drove the great print- 
ing-presses was in motion. Some one had started 
the engine, for what purpose he could not conjec- 
ture. 

In the engine-room he could hear the click of the 
engine, the crackling sound of the big driving-belt, 
the faint hissing of steam from the cylinder. 

The boy stood listening to the sounds for a full 
minute, uncertain what to do. 

The ring of a metallic shovel upon the cemented 
floor of the fire-room decided him, and he advanced 
boldly toward the latter. As he did so the motion 
of the engine became slower, and by the time he 
had reached the door of the fire-room it had stopped 
altogether. 

In the door-way he met the night watchman face 
to face. The man was a brawny fellow ; he had a 
lantern in one hand, in the other the shovel, which 
he was in the act of hanging upon a hook. 

“Eh! what are you here for?” the watchman de- 
manded, espying the boy before the latter could con- 
ceal himself. 

“I was looking to see who started the engine at 
this time of night,” Steve replied. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


113 


“You were, eh? Well, I guess that is rather thin. 
You were in the building when I started her. You 
were prowling around, for I heard you some time 
ago — or heard somebody.” 

The watchman looked severely at the boy. But the 
latter did not flinch. 

“I came in on business — somebody sent me here 
that had a right to. It is all correct, so don’t look 
savage. I guess you were asleep, or you’d have 
known there was something going on here. There 
were two men prowlin’ overhead; I heard ’em 
talkin’.” 

The watchman was interested at once. The fact 
was, he had felt a trifle nervous on account of the 
murder in the counting-room, and had, consequently, 
shrunk from visiting that part of the building, as it 
was his duty to do at least once every hour. 

“Honor bright, Steve, did you hear somebody talk- 
ing up-stairs?” the man eagerly asked. 

“Sure as I live, I did.” 

“Did you see ’em?” 

“How could I see ’em in the dark?” 

Steve had put his lantern out of sight, so this bit 
of deception passed unquestioned. 

“That’s so, Steve; you couldn’t. I fancied I heard 
voices awhile ago, but being nervous on account of 
the — the murder, I didn’t like to investigate. Thought 
it was my imagination, you see. You won’t say 
nothing about it?” 

“I’ll keep mum, if you will.” 

“About your being here?” 

“Yes. I was sent here to find out something by a 
detective. You mustn’t say anything about that, 
either. I merely tell you, so you won’t think I was 
prowlin’ ’round for any mischief.” 


114 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“I won’t say anything, Steve. But, about them 
voices you heard, I guess we’d better go over the 
building and see that they haven’t set fire to it any- 
where.” 

“Perhaps we’d better,” Steve assented. 

They explored the entire building together, even 
to the counting-room, where the shadows seemed to 
dance and play hide-and-seek like ghostly visitants. 

But no sign of the midnight visitors was found. 
Clarence Blain had left the building, while George 
Dyer, the foreman, had sought refuge in his hiding- 
place— the location of which was so mysterious. 

“Everything is all right, I guess,” the watchman 
declared, as they returned to the stairway leading 
to the basement. 

“Then I’ll leave you to look after your business 
alone,” said Steve. 

The boy made his exit by the same door which had 
afforded him entrance, the watchman locking it after 
him. 

He felt that he had learned something of import- 
ance, or, at least, had hit upon an incident that the 
detective would make useful. 

“If I could only have heard Dyer’s message that 
he whispered to Clarence, Mr. Croly would call me 
a brick, sure,” the lad mused, as he hastened along 
the lonely street. 

A church-clock clanged the hour of three. 

“And I ain’t any more sleepy than an owl,” ex- 
claimed Steve, as he heard the measured strokes 
echoed from other and more distant clocks. 

He was nearing his lodgings, when he imagined 
that he saw a man come away from a door-way 
close by. 

He did not take especial note of the fact, however, 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


115 


and in another moment was opening the door of his 
lodging-house with his latch-key. 

As the door swung open a hand seized him from 
behind, and drew him backward, while a gruff voice 
said: 

“Hold on, Steve Lawton — I’ve got business with 
you.” 

He turned, and to his dismay encountered the cool 
gaze of a big policeman. 

“Knock my form into pi if I ain’t in for it now,” 
was the young typo’s mental exclamation. 

Aloud he only asked : 

“What yer want?” 

“I want you.” 

“I haven’t done anything.” 

“Perhaps not, and perhaps you have. We’ll soon 
find out.” 

The officer dragged Steve away from the house 
without more ado. There was a police-station close 
at hand, and the boy expected to be taken thither. 
He naturally supposed that some one had seen him 
enter and come forth from the printing-house, and 
suspecting something to be wrong, entered a com- 
plaint. 

Steve was debating with himself whether it was 
not best to explain to the officer, when the latter 
suddenly halted him beside a carriage that seemed 
to have been standing in waiting for them. Then 
the lad decided to await further developments be- 
fore explaining. 

“Tumble in, boy, and we’ll take a little ride,” the 
policeman ordered. 

He pushed Steve into the carriage, and followed 
himself, and the vehicle rattled away over the pave- 
ments. 


116 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


The boy asked no questions, but kept an eye upon 
their course, for he had heard no order given the 
driver. 

They soon entered Fifth avenue, and presently 
drew up before one of the older but still elegant 
mansions near the lower end of that fashionable 
thoroughfare. 

“We’ll go in here, I guess,” said the officer, pull- 
ing the boy from the carriage and roughly hustling 
him up to the entrance. 

A ring brought a quick response. It was Mr. Blain 
himself who opened the door, and curtly said : 

“Come in, Steve,” and to the policeman, “All 
right, my man, you may go.” 

In another moment the bewildered boy found him- 
self in a large, dimly-lighted room. 

Mr. Blain stood before him, gazing sternly down 
into his face. 

“I wanted to talk with you,” he declared. 

“All right, sir — only half -past three in the mornin’ 
is a queer hour to be sent for in this way,” Steve re- 
turned. 

“It seems you had not gone to bed, if it is a queer 
hour.” 

“I had not, sir.” 

“You were out upon the street?” 

“I was.” 

“What were you doing?” 

“Unlocking the door to my lodgin’s.” 

“I meant, what have you been doing on the street 
until this hour of the morning?” 

“Wasn’t on the street all the time.” 

Mr. Blain seized the lad’s arm, and shook him im- 
patiently. 

“Answer me civilly,” he exclaimed. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


117 


“Didn’t I? Whatcher want of me, anyhow?” 

“Tell me what you were doing at this time of night 
in my building — the printing-house?” 

“I went there looking for something.” 

“Who told you to do so?” 

“Mr. Croly, the detective.” 

“If he had any business of that kind to perform 
why didn’t he do it himself?” 

“He had somethin’ else on his hands, I s’pose.” 

“He has employed you as a spy, has he?” 

“I dunno as that’s exactly what I am.” 

“Yes, it is; you’re a spy, hired to watch my busi- 
ness. I want you to understand that I will not al- 
low it.” 

“Don’t you want to catch the chap that killed Mr. 
Waldron?” 

“Certainly I do, and there are detectives on the 
case who will attend to it. But you are in my em- 
ploy — an apprentice in my establishment. ” 

“Mr. Croly wanted me to help him, sir.” 

“Mr. Croly doesn’t own you nor my building. I 
can’t trust boys prowling around the premises at 
night. I’ll have a big fire to pay for, or something 
of that kind. Do you hear?” 

“I hear well ’nough.” 

“And you will obey?” 

“I can’t say about that.” 

“You can’t say, eh?” 

“Hot till I see Mr. Croly.” 

“Mr. Croly is out o# the question, I tell you.” 

“Hot when he’s hired me.” 

“You are my apprentice.” 

“I’m his’n too.” 

“I hired you first.” 

“I guess not, mister. Your partner took me in, 


118 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


and you said you didn’t want no street Arabs for ap- 
prentices, but he was willin’ to try me. So I guess 
you needn’t kick now I’m ready to do something 
else.” 

Mr. Blain’s usually calm temper was aroused. He 
pushed the boy roughly into a chair, saying ; 

“I shall have to take care of you, young man. You 
are too impudent by half. I’ll have you taken to a 
police-station.” 

Before Steve could comprehend his purpose, the 
man strode from the room. Steve heard the door 
closed and locked behind his employer; and the 
click of the lock awakened the lad to a realization 
of his situation. 

Why Mr. Blain was so angry with him he could 
not imagine. Hitherto this gentleman had paid but 
little attention to the boy upon any occasion. He 
was usually pleasant to all his employees, but, as a 
rule, kept aloof from them during working hours. 

“I don’t know as I’ve done anything I didn’t have 
a right to do,” Steve muttered, as he heard Mr. 
Blain’s retreating footsteps. 

He glanced around the large dim room, and per- 
ceived another door and several windows. 

He tried the door, but that also was locked. Nor 
could he raise a window — he did not understand the 
fastenings. While making investigations he heard 
the street-door open, and then the sound of voices. 

“I guess I won’t go to the station-house if I can 
help it!” Steve exclaimed. 

He seized a chair and thrust it through one of the 
large windows, making a fearful sound of breaking 
glass. 

“I ain’t ’sponsible cause glass breaks when you 
try to bend it,” he declared, as he heard excited ex- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


119 


clamations outside the door, as well as the sound of 
footsteps rushing toward the room. 

He started to leap through the opening he had 
made, but changed his mind, and crawled under a 
lounge instead. 

He was just in time, for the door opened at the in- 
stant, and Mr. Blain and a policeman rushed into 
the room. 

6 'The little wretch has broken a window!” Blain 
exclaimed, his voice hoarse with passion. 

“And escaped to the street,” supplemented the 
officer, glancing out through the opening. 

“After him, then. Do not let him escape. He must 
pay dearly for this audacious business.” 

The policeman leaped through the broken win- 
dow; Mr. Blain, too eager to remain behind, fol- 
lowed suit. 

They had scarcely disappeared before the boy 
emerged from his hiding-place, and hastily surveyed 
the premises. 

“This is fun, by hokey !” he exclaimed. “Better’ll 
inkin’ rollers and sortin’ pi. But I guess I’d better 
skip while I havo the chance.” 


120 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

FUGITIVE AND DETECTIVE. 

Croly, the detective, gazed after the doctor’s car- 
riage, with the fugtive clinging to the rear, in sud- 
den admiration, not unmingled with chagrin. 

“Whatever they may say of Carl Brandon, it will 
take a long head to outwit him,” the detective ex- 
claimed. 

In another instant, however, he had raised a whis- 
tle to his lips and a shrill, ear-piercing blast sounded 
on the air. 

The doctor heard the signal, and naturally stopped 
his horse to see what was in the wind. A backward 
glance showed him the detective standing in the 
middle of the road. Of course he could not see the 
fugitive, ensconced in the back of his carriage, and 
therefore could only conjecture as to the purpose of 
the man who had signaled. 

The doctor was in a hurry, the hour and that point 
of the road were lonely, and he was impressed by a 
suspicion that he was in danger of highway robbery. 

So he struck his horse a sharp blow with the whip, 
the animal bounded forward, and the detective was 
still further chagrined at seeing the fugitive borne 
away more rapidly than before. 

Still Croly was not ready to give up. He started 
in pursuit of the vehicle, at the same time uttering 
a stentorian shout. 

“Hold on, sir, you’ve lost something,” the detec- 
tive cried, at the top of his lungs. 

The doctor again slackened the pace of his horse, 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


121 


and thrust his head out of the carriage, without 
coming to a halt, however. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. 

“I said you had lost something,” Croly answered 
back, running at a rate that maintained the dis- 
tance between himself and the vehicle about the 
same. 

“Fve lost what?” the doctor pursued, alert for a 
suspected trap. 

“I will tell you if you will wait a moment.” 

“I’m in a hurry.” 

“So am I.” 

“If you want anything of me, tell me so. If not, 
I’ll leave you.” 

“Look in the back of your carriage, then.” 

“What for?” 

“A man is stealing a ride.” 

This awakened the doctor’s curiosity to a pitch 
that could not be restrained even by prudence. 

He stopped his horse, leaped from the carriage, 
and was in time to see Carl Brandon slip from the 
back of the vehicle and dash toward the woods. 

The doctor started to pursue the fugitive ; but as 
the former was short, fat and scant of breath, he im- 
mediately abandoned the absurd effort, and left the 
chase wholly to the detective. 

Croly was a trained athlete, and when it came to 
a foot-race he was not to be easily beaten. He 
paused for no explanations, but bounded in pursuit 
of Brandon, plunging into the midst of the thicket 
where the man had disappeared. 

For several rods the detective struggled through 
the dense undergrowth ; but he was brought to a 
halt in a startling manner. 

“Stop, if you would live!” exclaimed a deep, stern 


122 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


voice, as he emerged into a sort of natural glade sur- 
rounded by trees. 

Croly was fearless, yet cautious. He saw Carl 
Brandon standing erect before him, with a revolver 
in one outstretched hand. The man had a handsome 
face; his eyes were dark and piercing, and just then 
they blazed with a resolute fire that added to the 
impressiveness of his countenance. Menaced thus, 
the detective promptly obeyed the stern command, 
halting in the center of the opening. But he did not 
recoil as Brandon took a determined step forward, 
nor did he draw a weapon. 

“Better put up your pistol ; you will not need it,” 
the detective said, in a tone so low and calm that the 
fugitive was more surprised than he would have 
been had Croly disregarded his command. 

Brandon hesitated for a moment only; then flung 
the weapon to the ground and calmly folded his 
arms. 

“If there is treachery on either side, it will be 
upon yours, not mine,” the vagabond declared, in 
his strangely musical tones. 

“I think we may become the best of friends,” said 
Croly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Merely that I do not believe you guilty of any 
crime. I am in quest of evidence only, and there is 
no need of your running away, unless you really 
fear justice.” 

“I do not fear justice,” Brandon declared. 

“Then why do you flee?” 

“It is of injustice that I am afraid.” 

“You think you are in danger of false accusa- 
tion?” 

“I know I am.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


123 


“Do you know why I have taken so much trouble 
to overtake you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me what you think is my object.” 

“To find out about the murder of Hiram Waldron.” 

“Why should a detective come to you for informa- 
tion on this subject?” 

“Because, I suppose, I was formerly connected 
with him in business, and because I am now con- 
nected with the class of vagabonds and criminals to 
whose charge all iniquities are laid, whether they 
are guilty or not. I know how this detective busi- 
ness is managed. If a man is arrested by the police 
upon any charge, no matter how light, he is put on 
record as a suspicious character ; then he is watched. 
If he doesn’t live a more perfect life than the most 
respectable of citizens, they soon have a long record 
against him. Then, when a murder like this one is 
committed, they look over their catalogue of hard 
characters, hit upon two or three who might possibly 
have a motive for the crime, and then watch these 
unfortunate men so sharply that they are made to 
do more suspicious things, until they are so strongly 
implicated that there is no escaping arrest and prob- 
able conviction. That is the way it is done, and that 
is why you are following me in this manner. You 
mean well enough ; you’re doing your duty ; but that 
is no reason why I should not distrust you, and look 
out for my own safety.” 

Croly, the detective, could not restrain a feeling 
of deep sympathy for this unhappy man. Indeed 
he sympathized with all, even the most vicious ; for 
he believed that the spark of immortal aspiration 
and capability existed in every human breast, and 
that it was only clouded by ignorance, vice, and the 


124 


UNDER IIIS THUMB. 


false precepts which mold the childhood of the 
masses. 

Croly, like all truly great detectives, made a dis- 
tinction between wrong and the doer of the wrong. 

“I said that I did not believe you to be guilty of 
this crime,” the detective repeated, adding, however, 
in a tone of conviction: “I do believe, nevertheless, 
that you can help me to bring to justice the real cul- 
prit.” 

“Why do you think so?” 

“Because you probably know who were Mr. Wal- 
dron’s enemies.” 

“Perhaps I do. But he had few enemies.” 

“I wish you to explain one or two points, at all 
events.” 

“What are they?” 

“You gave your daughter, Stella, a revolver for 
her to use in self-defense, should she need such a 
weapon, did you not?” 

“I did.” 

“Did you know that it was this weapon which 
took the life of Mr. Waldron?” 

“Stella told me of the result of your investiga- 
tions.” 

“Can you explain how it was taken from her room, 
and by whom?” 

“I can.” 

“Ah!” 

Brandon’s face was somewhat pale, and he labored 
under intense excitement, as was attested by a 
tremor that shook his form. 

The detective, surprised at his reply, quietly con- 
tinued : 

“Who, then, purloined the weapon?” 

“You probably think I did.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


125 


“I do not think so.” 

Carl Brandon smiled in an odd way, and said : 

“That shows that you detectives can make mis- 
takes.” 

“Why?” 

“Because. I took the pistol from Stella’s room a 
short time before the crime was committed.” 

“You took it?” 

“I have said so.” 

Croly did not often yield to the excitement of 
eagerness. But now, confronted by this startling 
admission, which seemed to come so close to furnish- 
ing a positive clew to the mystery, he could not re- 
frain from seizing the vagabond’s arm and sternly 
exclaiming : 

“Then you know who shot Hiram Waldron!” 

“I did not shoot him.” 

“You know who did.” 

“I did not see the fatal shot fired; I did not hear 
it. I know nothing about it, save what I suspect, 
and my suspicions belong to no man but myself.” 

Carl Brandon spoke with firm deliberation, al- 
though he could not repress an exhibition of the in- 
tense agitation which he could not have failed to ex- 
perience. 

, Croly watched the man’s face ciosely. In a low, 
commanding tone, he said : 

“You must not allow a crime to go unpunished if 
you can furnish means of convicting the guilty 
man.” 

“I shall not state my suspicions.” 

“Upon the morning of the tragedy you had the in- 
strument of the crime in your possession?” 

“I did.” 

“To whom did you give it?” 


126 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“To no one.” 

“How, then, did it go out of your possession?” 

“I do not know, except ” 

‘ ‘Except — what ?” 

Carl Brandon compressed his lips and hesitated. 
His voice was firm, however, when he said : 

“It is the old story. I was intoxicated, and was 
foolish enough to show my weapon. An officer 
stopped, and said he couldn’t let me have such a 
dangerous plaything. I gave it to him, and that is 
the last I have seen of it. How it came in the count- 
ing-room of Blain & Waldron, and the instrument 
of a crime I do not know. As I have said, I suspect, 
and my suspicions cannot become another’s prop- 
erty.” 

Croly, in baffled expectation and disappointment, 
impatiently exclaimed : 

“You are an important witness, Mr. Brandon. It 
is my duty to take you into custody !” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


127 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE FLIGHT. 

Stella Brandon, friendless and bewildered by the 
misfortunes which seemed to have conspired to over- 
whelm her, hastened along the quiet street toward 
her boarding-place. 

“Go, and be a vagabond yourself l” had been the 
harsh command of Mr. Blain, as he turned her 
away from the mansion of which she had so myste- 
riously become an inmate. 

There could be only one interpretation of the 
words. Carl Brandon, the hated outcast, was her 
father, and he was under suspicion for the terrible 
crime at the printing-house. She was true to this 
vagabond father ; she had defended his name against 
what she believed to be unjust aspersions. And thus 
had she brought upon herself the heritage of misfor- 
tune and vagabondage. 

Upon the day just dawning and the one to follow, 
business would be suspended at the printing-house 
out of respect for the murdered gentleman. Then it 
would go on again as usual. But what meant Mr. 
Blain’s angry remark to Stella? Expulsion from her 
situation? It could mean nothing less. 

“I am out of work; I have no friends; and, like 
my father, I must now become a vagabond, for who 
will employ me?” 

This was the poor girl’s reflection as she entered 
the small, cheap room where she lodged. 

The day dawned cloudy and forbidding, and upon 


128 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


the next it rained. During this period Stella scarcely 
went forth from her lodgings. 

Toward the close of this rainy day, however, she 
made her way to the dingy brick dwelling which 
was the home of Katie Byrnes. 

The latter, with pale, agitated face, met her at the 
door. J 

“Come in, quick, Stella, ” she breathlessly ex- 
claimed, drawing her visitor into the dark, narrow, 
hall-way, and hastily closing the door. 

“What is the trouble?” Stella asked, in sudden 
alarm, for she had never seen her friend so excited 
before. 

“Trouble enough, to be sure. It isn’t five minutes 
since they were looking for you.” 

“Looking for me? Who?” 

“Why, the police, of course. And nothing would do 
but I must tell ’em all I knew about you, or be arrested 
myself. But I sent ’em on a wild-goose chase, that 
I did . They’ll be poking over to the other side of 
the city in search of ye, for I told ’em you boarded 
in West Twelfth street — and so you did, a good 
while ago, as they’ll be after finding out when they 
inquire. This minute I was coming up to warn ye. 
There may be a policeman watching this door now. 
But he mustn’t get you. Sure, and you’re innocent 
as a lamb.” 

Stella comprehended the truth in a moment. 

“Then I, too, must flee for safety!” she exclaimed. 

“You will have to hide somewhere, to be sure,” 
replied her warm-hearted friend. 

“Why should I do so. I am innocent of any 
wrong. You know I am innocent, Katie?” 

“Of course I know it. But the police— they’re that 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


129 


blind they can’t tell an honest face when they see 
one.” 

6 They are not to blame, of course. They are told 
to arrest suspected persons, and they merely do their 
duty.” 

“Then it’s no harm to them if I send them off to 
the wrong side of the city to find you, is it? But the 
papers are all against you and your father. Have 
you read them this morning? They’ve got your name 
in print more than twenty times, though it is little 
to your credit they say.” 

The girl had a copy of one of the dailies in her 
hand, and unfolding it, she directed Stella’s atten- 
tion to the latest news concerning the great tragedy. 

As she had declared, the names of Stella Brandon 
and her vagabond father were brought out promi- 
nently, the latter as suspected of direct connection 
with the crime, and the former as guilty of shield- 
ing the man from his pursuers, and probably know- 
ing his guilt. 

“Whose work is this?” she cried, when she had 
finished scanning the paragraph 

“If that was said of me, I should be for laying it 
to some cowardly enemy, that I should. For didn’t 
you say that Mr. Croly, the detective, stood up for 
ye? Sure, and he wouldn’t be so mean ” 

“Surely he would, if he thought my father was 
guilty. The detectives are working for a reward, and 
they’re bound to take some one if they cannot find 
the real culprit.” 

“Then it is time you found a place to hide. They 
shall not harm a hair of your head if I can help it, 
Stella, dear. It is coming on dark now, and we’ll be 
off together.” 


130 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


" You must not cast your lot with mine, Katie. For 
if you do ” 

‘'Never you mind me. Fm not the black sheep to 
turn me back on a friend when she needs one. Come 
with me, and Fll show you how to outwit the police 
and the mean curs that are setting them on.” 

The cheerful speech of the warm-hearted girl 
awakened Stella’s natural resoluteness of purpose. 

“I shall not let them take me if I can help it,” she 
firmly declared, joining her friend in her prepara- 
tions for flight. 

An hour later they stole forth upon the street, both 
so muffled and disguised that it would have been 
difficult for one familiar with them to make sure of 
their identity. 

They made their way to one of the least crowded 
ferries to Long Island City, and were soon on their 
way to the other side. 

They had scarcely landed at the Long Island City 
slip, when Stella, with a thrill of horror, saw a fa- 
miliar form coming toward them. 

It was a slouching figure, and a coarse, reckless 
face that met the startled gaze of the girls — the face 
and figure of Bill Leary, the "tough.” 

He passed quite close to them, but gave them only 
a passing glance. 

"He did not recognize us,” Stella exclaimed, 
clutching the arm of her friend. 

"Who is it?” the latter asked. 

"His name is Leary — the same with whom I had 
such a strange adventure night before last.” 

Stella had already acquainted her friend with the 
details of that experience. 

"We needn’t be afraid if he doesn’t know us.” 

"Yet I am afraid to have him so near.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


131 


“Come, then, and we’ll leave him a good distance 
behind ere he can have a chance to suspect who you 
are.” 

They hastened through the throng of people in the 
vicinity of the ferry, soon reaching a quiet street, 
along which they made their way to a railway sta- 
tion. And a little later they were whirled out into 
the country upon the Long Island Railroad— out past 
the small suburban villages toward the more rural 
districts beyond. 

“If Cousin Mary is the woman that she once 
was, she will keep you safe in her own snug house, 
where the police will never think of looking for 
you,” said Katie, as they sped along. 

The drizzling rain of the day had set into a pour- 
ing rain after sunset, and the great drops splashed 
upon the car windows in long streaks, while the 
darkness was so intense that not an object was visi- 
ble outside, save the glimmering lights from the oc- 
casional cottages which they passed. 

When the train stopped at last at the small station 
which Katie had chosen as a haven of refuge, the 
storm seemed to have reserved all its concentrated 
fury for the moment. 

The two girls and a man were the only passen- 
gers to alight. The latter immediately disappeared, 
but Stella and her companion lingered under the 
dripping station awning, trying to make out which 
way to go. 

The lamp upon the side of the station glared in 
their faces, blinding them to all other objects. 

They entered the waiting-room, but found that de- 
serted. The station-agent, a big, red-faced man, 
thrust his head into the room, gave the girls a single 


132 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


scowling glance, and then closed the door with a 
bang without vouchsafing a word. 

“We must walk up to my cousin’s house in spite of 
the storm, for they don’t have any cabs in this out- 
of-the-way place,” said Katie, when they had 
wrapped themselves in their waterproofs and re- 
turned to the depot platform. 

“How far have we to go?” Stella asked, as they 
found their way to the muddy road. 

“It is half a mile up to the village, and we’ll be 
drowned in the mud before we get there, at this 
rate.” 

There were trees upon both sides of the lonely 
road, and the way was intensely dark. 

Still, they picked their way, under the pouring 
rain and gusty wind. 

Suddenly Stella laid her hand warningly on the 
arm of her friend. 

“There is some one behind us!” she exclaimed. 

A heavy tramp, tramp had become audible at the 
moment, and they could discern a slouching figure 
coming toward them. 

“Likely it is the depot master,” said Katie. 

Yet, even as she spoke, she was convinced that her 
conjecture was not true. 

They involuntarily quickened their footsteps. And 
the slouching figure in their rear followed their ex- 
ample. 

“Oh, let us run — run!” Stella whispered, seized 
with a sudden, overwhelming fear. 

Clasping hands they began running: up the ascent, 
the rain beating in their faces, their feet sinking in 
the soft mud at every step. 

Then their worst suspicions were confirmed ; for 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


133 


the man behind them began running, also, and at a 
pace that quickly brought him up with them. » 

“What are you afraid of, eh?” the man demanded, 
as the fugitives came to a stop, clinging to each 
other. 

Stella recognized the voice upon the instant. Their 
pursuer was Bill Leary, the New York ruffian, with 
whom she had already had such a thrilling experi- 
ence. In some way he had penetrated their disguise, 
and followed them hither. 

“What do you mean, sir, by following us?” Stella 
demanded. 

Although in mortal dread of the ruffian, her perils 
nerved her to a desperate courage. 

“It is bad manners you’re showing, IT1 say that 
for you,” supplemented Katie. 

Leary made no response. He glanced up and down 
the lonely road, and then leaped toward the girls. 

They recoiled with a scream, but he succeeded in 
seizing Katie by the arm. With rude force he tore 
her from her companion. 

But the Irish girl, vigorous and courageous, re- 
sisted him with fierce desperation, while Stella 
sprang to her friend’s assistance. 

The ruffian for a few moments found it no easy 
matter to resist the fierce attack of the pair. But 
with aroused anger, he succeeded in striking Katie 
a savage blow that sent her reeling to the earth. 
Then he turned upon Stella. 

But the latter had slipped away from him. In her 
place, however, stood a tall figure, who, before the 
ruffian could flee, reached out two powerful arms 
and grappled with him. And the two girls, in deep 
bewilderment, beheld their foe and the tall stranger 
moving through the gloom in rapid evolutions. 


134 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


* 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A SKILLED SHOT. 

As Croly, the detective, uttered the remark which 
closes chapter sixteen, he advanced and placed one 
hand lightly upon the arm of the vagabond. 

Brandon did not stir a muscle. But a sudden, 
fierce light flashed from his dark eyes, and in a low, 
cold voice he exclaimed : 

“Do you mean to arrest me, sir?” 

“Why should I not? You know, without doubt, 
who committed the dastardly murder of Hiram 
Waldron, and yet you refuse to give me the light 
which it is in your power to give. Thus you become 
the same as an accomplice of the murderer.” 

“I told you I did not know.” 

“You say you suspect.” 

“Which I have a right to do. A man may have 
suspicions, and yet be unwilling to disclose them.” 

“I would hold nothing back that would lead to the 
clearing up of the mystery.” 

“What you would do and what I will do are two 
different things. My suspicions are my own, and 
for the present they remain so.” 

“Then, as I said, it becomes my duty to arrest 
you.” 

Croly’s purpose was not, as it might seem, to bull- 
doze the outcast into making a confession. He did 
not suspect Brandon of complicity in the crime, but 
he believed, if permitted to go free, the unknown 
conspirator would manage to use the unfortunate 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


135 


man as a foil, implicating him more deeply than 
ever in the crime. 

Thus the detective’s efforts would be hampered. 
Therefore his determination to place the vagabond 
temporarily under arrest was as much in the interest 
of Brandon as his own labors. 

The latter drew himself to his full height. And, 
in a deliberate tone, said : 

“I have a duty also, and when it comes to duty 
you will find me quite as faithful as yourself.” 

For a moment the two men looked into each 
other’s eyes, and Croly experienced that indescriba- 
ble thrill which only a powerfully magnetic gaze can 
give. 

“What is your duty?” the detective asked, more 
to draw out the other than anything else. 

With unexpected agility the vagabond leaped 
backward, at the same time sending out a powerful, 
well-directed blow with his clenched hand. 

The blow was unlooked for. Yet Croly partially 
warded it off, although its force sent him reeling 
backward several paces. 

This gave Brandon a momentary advantage, and 
he followed it up in a startling manner. 

Recovering the weapon which he had flung upon 
the ground, he aimed it quickly at the detective, 
and fired. 

They were not separated by a dozen feet. Croly’s 
quick eye noted the direction of the vagabond’s aim, 
and saw that no vital part of his body was menaced. 
Hence he acted according to the only wise course, 
although it was as severe a test to his nerves as he 
had ever sustained. The instantaneous thought 
flashed through his brain : 

“If I try to avoid the shot I may be struck in a 


136 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


vital spot. He intends only to frighten, or, at worst, 
to temporarily cripple me. I must let him do it.” 

Such a thought takes form in an active brain 
much more quickly than words can express it. The 
purpose and its fulfillment were simultaneous. 

Hence, as the pistol report rang on the still morn- 
ing air, reverberating through the surrounding 
woods, Croly stood motionless as a statue, and ex- 
perienced that hot, stinging sensation which a bullet 
imparts in grazing the person. 

It was his right leg that was struck, and it seemed 
to him that only the skin was grazed by the bullet. 
But, as Brandon turned to flee, and Croly sprang for- 
ward to overtake him, the wounded limb succumbed 
to his weight as though paralyzed, and the detective 
fell headlong to the ground. 

Pursuit then would be unavailing, even if the de- 
tective could have used his limb, for the fugitive 
had a good start, and was uninjured. 

Croly sat up and hastily examined his injury. As 
he had supposed, it was only a slight one, yet in- 
flicted at a point that temporarily paralyzed his 
limb. 

“He intended to do just this and no more, and he 
succeeded in a way that shows him to be a prime 
shot,” the detective explained, proceeding to band- 
age the wound and stanch the flow of blood. 

In ten minutes he could stand and walk without 
much difficulty. 

But he did not pursue the fugitive. He could 
find the latter whenever he chose to do so, and there 
was no hurry in that direction. 

He returned to New York, partook of breakfast 
at a restaurant, and then made his way toward the 
lodgings of Steve Lawton. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


137 


As he neared them, who should he see but the boy 
himself running toward him as if for dear life, and 
hotly pursued by a policeman. 

“Gracious, ain’t I glad yer happened along ’bout 
now!” the lad panted, halting at the detective’s side, 
and quickly facing his pursuer, who hastened up to 
them flourishing his club. 

“Don’t yer touch me, ’less yer wants a broken 
head !” Steve exclaimed, defiantly facing the officer. 

“I don’t think I shall be frightened by a boy,” de- 
clared the policeman, reaching out to seize the 
youngster. 

“You will let him alone, all the same, until you tell 
me what you intend to do with him,” the low, mild 
tones of the detective interposed. 

“What have you to do with the affair?” the police- 
man demanded. 

“Nothing, except that I shall protect the boy.” 

“Rather cool, aren’t you, to dispute the authority 
of an officer?” 

“Perhaps I am, but I shall take the risk. I am 
just about as much of an officer as you are, and I 
have a few grains of authority when it becomes 
necessary to use it. What has this lad been doing?” 

“He broke a gentleman’s window — was playing 
thief, I suppose.” 

“Whose window did he break?” 

“Mr. Julian Blain’s.” 

“Ah! possibly he did. What have you to say, 
Steve?” 

The boy briefly stated the facts as they are already 
known to the reader. When he explained the clever 
ruse by which he had escaped from the gentleman’s 
mansion, Croly smiled approvingly. 

“You’ll do, my boy,” he said, and Steve felt that 


138 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


his shrewdness was appreciated by this clear- 
sighted detective. 

The policeman stared at him in bewilderment. 

“So you didn’t leave the house when you broke 
the glass?” he exclaimed. 

“Not much. I broke the window for you and Mr. 
Blain to go out by. When you were gone, I went 
out by the door, that you left open for my benefit,” 
said Steve. 

Croly smiled again, and the policeman scowled. 

He recognized the detective, but did not fancy 
being defrauded of his revenge for the lad’s trick. , 

“I have orders to arrest the boy,” he said, deter- 
minedly. 

“Who gave you the orders?” Croly asked. 

“Mr. Blain.” 

“Well, I will take the liberty of countermanding 
them. I tell you to let the boy alone.” 

“I must do my duty, Mr. Croly.” 

“You’re not obliged to do an impossibility.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“If you take him you will have to take me, too, 
and I won’t give in without a struggle. So if you 
are going to pull us both in, begin the picnic as soon 
as you can, and have it over with.” 

Without waiting for the officer to “begin the pic- 
nic,” however, Croly hastily led the youngster 
toward a passing car, stepped aboard, and before 
the slower. brained officer could make up his mind 
what to do, he was too far in the rear to do anything. 

The detective took his boy assistant to his private 
quarters. 

Scarce a word passed between them during the 
trip. But in the detective’s private room Steve gave 
expression to his wonder in a low whistle. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


139 


“If you haven’t got a lot of queer things!” he ex- 
claimed, staring at the many curious objects with 
which the table and shelves were strewn. 

“I will describe and explain them to you pres- 
ently,” said Croly, admiring the keen, observant 
glance of the lad. “But first,” he continued, “I wish 
you to tell me what you have been doing. I told 
you to visit the printing-house last night, and see if 
you could discover anything about George Dyer. 
Did you succeed in doing so?” 

“I got into the buildin’, and I saw and heard 
something curious,” was the reply. 

“What did you see and hear?” 

Steve related his experiences in detail. The in- 
telligent eyes of the detective sparkled with eager- 
ness. 

“And that is all?” he questioned, as the boy 
ceased, having recounted the incidents which we 
have given in the tenth and eleventh chapters of our 
story. 

“That is all, sir,” the boy answered. 

“So Dyer wished to send a communication to Mr. 
Blain, and dared not trust it in writing?” 

“So it appears. And Clarence Blain didn’t care to 
take it, for fear of getting: drunk and blabbing. I 
guess it was a mighty ’portant message, don’t you 
think so, mister?” 

“I should say it was. And another thing, I must 
find out what it is. I must see Clarence Blain — that 
is the first thing on the docket. Then I must experi- 
ment with my little clew, the bloody thumb-print. 
And if I don’t have somebody under my thumb one 
of these fine days, I shall miss my calculations, that 
is all. Now, let me give you some more directions, 
Steve. Keep your eyes and ears open, and see that 


140 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


you do not fall into the toils. Til risk you anywhere, 
if you only do not try to be too smart. That is the 
only trouble I ever have with boys in employing 
them to accomplish important missions. They often 
try to do more than they can carry out.” 

Croly followed with several minute directions, 
which he charged the boy to bear in mind. 

Then Steve went to his own lodgings to get some 
sleep, of which he was sorely in need. 

When the lad had gone, Croly proceeded to make 
several important preparations, the result of which 
was to be a test of his strange clew, the bloody 
thumb-print. 

During the entire day the detective remained in 
his laboratory, only going out for a hasty lunch dur- 
ing the time. 

Upon the next morning he made his way toward 
the mansion of Julian Blain. 

As he ascended the steps he saw two men stand- 
ing upon the porch, engaged in animated conversa- 
tion. 

One was the Hindoo detective, whose passive face 
contrasted strongly with the excited countenance of 
the other, who seemed stricken with mortal terror. 

The latter was Clarence Blain. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


141 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 

Stella Brandon was so bewildered by the rapid 
succession of events, her own terror, and the sur- 
rounding gloom, that for a moment after she saw 
her friend struck down she stood motionless and ir- 
resolute. 

She realized that Leary had been attacked by some 
one, and that he had his hands full for the present, 
at least. 

That the ruffian’s assailant was an officer from 
New York she naturally inferred, and the fact, in- 
stead of dispelling her fears, intensified them. For 
she feared the officers scarcely less than she did the 
lawless ruffian. 

Springing to the spot where her companion had 
fallen, she found the latter in the act of rising to her 
feet. 

“The villain, to strike down a girl! Where is he?” 
exclaimed Katie Byrnes, angry and breathless, but 
unhurt. 

“Some one has attacked him, and he has his hands 
full for the present,” Stella returned. And she 
eagerly continued: “But we must not stay here a 
moment. If his assailant is an officer, our peril is 
greater than ever.” 

“That is so. But it isn’t easy to find our way in 
this darkness. I really believe that it is raining ink, 
for I never saw a night so black in all me life.” 

The resolute Irish girl grasped the hand of her 


142 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


companion, and together they resumed their flight 
along the dark, muddy highway. 

Had they only known that they were fleeing from 
one who would have proved their most substantial 
friend, their action would have been very different 
indeed. 

For the one who had attacked Leary was the brave 
Hindoo detective ;' and he had followed them for the 
express purpose of guarding them against their foes. 

Yet had they known the identity of the detective, 
without knowing of his purpose, they would doubt- 
less have refused to trust to his protection. Hence, 
in blindness to their own welfare, the two girls fled 
from their best friend — fled on and on through the 
darkness and storm, into new and unfathomed 
depths of danger. 

For an hour they struggled along the muddy road. 
The ascent grew steeper at every step, and they be- 
came presently aware that the road was narrower, 
and densely shaded on both sides by tall trees. 

Katie came suddenly to a halt, uttering a gasp of 
dismay. 

“I believe we’re wrong!” she exclaimed. 

“Wrong — how?” 

“We’ve gone off on a cross road, some way. It 
was so dark that I didn’t notice. But I know it isn’t 
this far from the station to the village. And I know, 
too, that the road we ought to have taken isn’t so 
narrow nor steep as this one.” 

“Then we’re lost, I suppose.” 

“If it wasn’t for the darkness we would soon find 
the right road.” 

They were silent for a minute, the rain beating in 
their faces. Stella was next to speak. 

“What shall we do?” she asked. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


143 


“We can go back.” 

“And fall into the hands of our enemies, it is 
likely.” 

“Then we can go on.” 

“That is the only way. We may come to a house, 
where they will take us in for the night.” 

“Like the pair of tramps that we are.” 

Again they pushed on up the hill. A moment later 
Stella exclaimed : 

“Yonder is a light.” 

Sure enough, there 'was a faint glimmer quite close 
at hand. They hastened toward it, but the light 
seemed to be suddenly extinguished, and once more 
they halted. 

“If it is a house the folks have gone to bed, it is 
likely,” said Stella. “Yet it is ouronly chance of ob- 
taining shelter, so let us make bold to seek admit- 
tance.” 

As they advanced, they beheld the dim outlines of 
a low, shapeless building — neither a house nor a 
barn. It was a mere shanty of rough boards, with- 
out window or door. One entire end was open to the 
weather, serving as an entrance. All was dark and 
silent within. 

“Shall we enter?” Katie asked, in a whisper. 

“Why not? We can thus escape the rain until 
morning, and then we can find our way to better 
quarters.” 

“But the light that we saw — you forget that.” 

“Some one may have passed with a lantern.” 

“Sure, this is an uncanny place, Stella. But if 
you’re not afraid, it isn’t the likes of me to forsake 
you.” 

“I fear nothing except pursuit.” 

Stella Brandon led the way, stepping cautiously 


144 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


into the hut. Of course she could not discern an 
object before her. She cautiously groped her way for 
two or three paces, and then tremblingly demanded : 

“Is there any one here? If there is, let him speak.” 

Katie, usually courageous, was timid now. She 
would not shrink from visible dangers. But the un- 
seen and unknown perils were to her the hardest to 
defy. 

They waited breathlessly for a response to Stella’s 
challenge. But none came. A loose board upon the 
hut was rattled by a passing gust of wind ; this was 
the only sound audible above the patter of the rain 
and rustle of the overhanging foliage. 

“Come — we have nothing to fear,” said Stella, 
her courage returning. 

They entered and sank down upon the mossy earth, 
which was the only floor of which the hut could 
boast. 

Fortunately it was dry, and the girls experienced 
a sense of comfort and security such as they had not 
known since the commencement of their flight. 

Attaining a comfortable position, and lulled by the 
pattering rain and whirring foliage, the fugitives 
fell asleep. 

How long they slept they did not know. They 
were awakened with a start. Both sprang to a sit- 
ting posture, clutching each other’s hands. They 
instantly recalled their situation, and realized that 
some unusual sound must have awakened them, for 
they were too greatly fatigued to have been aroused 
otherwise. 

“What is it?” Katie asked, in a whisper. 

“I’m not sure.” 

“What do you think it was, then? Sure, and we 
heard something.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


145 


“It sounded like a shout. Hark ! there it is again. 5 ' 

Above the sounds of the storm came a prolonged, 
dismal cry, that caused the two girls to clasp each 
other's hands in terror. 

“A call for help, wasn't it?" was Katie's whispered 
query. 

“I think not." 

“Sure and it didn't sound human at all. I believe 
it is a spirit, Stella." 

“Nonsense. It was a man or There!" 

Once more the cry sounded above the storm. This 
time it was nearer than before, and there was no 
mistaking its character. 

“It is a hound," exclaimed Stella, with a sigh of 
relief. 

“Maybe there’s a hunter roving about in the 
woods, then." 

“Very likely." 

“And who knows but this is his hut? But he 
wouldn't be so unkind as to turn us out of doors in 
the storm, I am sure." 

“Of course not. If he does not betray us to our 
pursuers, I shall fear nothing else." 

Again and again the baying of the hound sounded 
on the night air, each time nearer than before. But 
presently it ceased, and for a long interval it was 
not heard. 

The fugitives rose and went to the open end of 
their shelter. 

It was still raining heavily, and the wind careered 
wildly through the tree-tops. 

As they stood and listened they heard a, crashing 
of undergrowth close at hand ; and then, so loud and 
near that they recoiled in terror, they heard the 
deep bay of the hound. 


146 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


The animal bounded directly toward them, and 
his lank, wet body came in contact with Stella’s 
hand. She patted his head fearlessly, saying : 

“We have nothing to fear from the beast, Katie.” 

“But his master may not be so kind.” 

“And he may be kinder. At least we can again 
flee if it comes to that.” 

“Or we can fight, to be sure. Haven’t I got a pis- 
tol? And I can use it, too.” 

“Hark!” 

The sound of human footsteps approached. Peer- 
ing out into the darkness, only the swaying branches 
of the trees were visible. But a voice, crisp and dis- 
tinct, called out : 

“Hero, where are you?” 

Stella caught the hand of her friend in sudden ter- 
ror. 

“I have heard that voice before,” she breathlessly 
whispered. 

‘“Who is it?” 

“I — I cannot think.” 

“It isn’t the detective, Croly?” 

“No.” 

“Nor a policeman that you have spoken with?” 

“I think not. And yet how familiar the voice 
sounds!” 

The dog, for some reason, did not obey the man’s 
call. He crouched close to the girls, and did not stir. 

“Where is the hound?” impatiently exclaimed the 
voice from the darkness. 

Then the footsteps approached, and the girls dimly 
saw a man’s figure cautiously advancing. 

“Shall we flee?” Katie asked, in the ear of her 
friend. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


147 


“Wait. If I could only recall where I have heard 
that voice before / 5 

“Is it that ruffian, Bill Leary ? 55 

“Oh, no . 55 

“It is strange you can’t remember. But if we are 
going to run from him we haven’t a minute to lose.” 

“We will stand our ground. I do not believe this 
hut belongs to him, and there is no need of running 
from a shadow. Here he comes. I will challenge 
him.” 

And in the same breath the brave girl demanded, 
in a clear tone : 

“Who are you, sir?” 

The man halted, uttered a startled ejaculation, and 
then exclaimed : 

“A woman in this place! Ah, there are two!” 

As he spoke the man produced a lantern, which 
had been concealed until then. 

The light flashed into the faces of the girls, at the 
same time illuming his own. 

“Stella Brandon!” the man cried, huskily. 

“George Dyer, the missing foreman!” uttered 
Stella, in consternation. 

It was a strange meeting. 


148 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RIVALS MEET. 

As may be imagined, Croly’s interest was keenly 
excited by the scene upon the steps of the Blain 
mansion. The knowledge of the Hindoo detective’s 
almost fabulous skill in detecting the most secret 
crimes, and unearthing clews where no clews 
seemed to exist, Croly naturally apprehended danger 
from the rivalry. 

Never before had the two great detectives been 
engaged upon the same case. 

The Hindoo was older and more experienced. His 
methods were original and marvelously successful. 
Croly, on the other hand, was a comparatively 
young man, with a reputation to make. Should he 
win over his distinguished rival upon this blind case, 
and through that unique clew of his, then his repu- 
tation would at least be on a plane with that of the 
wonderful Hyjah. 

The detective quickly ascended the steps, and was 
in time to hear Clarence Blain exclaim : 

“I tell you I know nothing of the crime. I do not 
know where George Dyer is hiding.” 

Croly advanced in an unconcerned manner, and 
asked : 

“Is your father within, sir?” 

“He is in bed, I think, sir,” answered the young 
man, visibly shrinking under the penetrating gaze 
of the detective. 

“Then I could not see him?” 

“If necessary, sir. But it is yet early. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


149 


“It doesn’t appear to be early for you.” 

The young man averted his face, and seemed on 
the point of entering the house. At the same time 
the Hindoo, having nodded in recognition of his ri- 
val, turned to depart. 

Croly, stepping between them, quickly placed a 
hand upon the arm of each. 

“Do I interrupt an interview?” he questioned. 

“We had finished,” Hyjah quietly replied. And 
he added: “Pardon me if I leave you, as I am in 
great haste.” 

He descended the steps, while Croly turned to the 
young man, saying : 

“Then it is my turn; so you need not go in.” 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Clarence Blain 
coldly inquired, recalling the summary treatment 
that he had received at the hands of this slender, 
wiry man upon a former occasion. 

“You can give me some very valuable informa- 
tion, if you will,” Croly declared. 

“I may not choose to do so, if I can.” 

“You may not act wholly according to choice in 
the matter, young man. Upon another occasion, if I 
remember rightly, you desisted from persecuting a 
young lady somewhat before you chose to do so. Do 
you remember it?” 

“You meddled with that which did not concern 
you, sir.” 

“That is all right.” 

Croly’s eyes gleamed from behind his spectacles 
in a way that made the young man feel very un- 
comfortable. 

The detective continued, in a milder tone, how- 
ever. 

“Of course, I am seeking information only con- 


150 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


cerning the criminal mystery which I am trying to 
solve. And you are doubtless as eager as myself to 
have the matter cleared up. I do not wish to be dis- 
courteous, but I shall expect direct answers.” 

Young Blain was silent, but it was plain that he 
was ill at ease. After a pause that was unpleasantly 
long, he asked : 

“What do you wish to know?” 

“In the first place, are you acquainted with 
George Dyer, the missing foreman?” 

“I knew him slightly.” 

“Are you familiar with the details of your father’s 
business?” 

“I am not.” 

“What is your employment?” 

“I am a gentleman of leisure. I do not like busi- 
ness ; I detest work, and I do as I please in these 
matters.” 

“You are candid to admit it.” 

“I intend to be candid, even though I am a scape- 
grace. That is what I am called, and I suppose I 
am one.” 

“You visit the printing-house sometimes?” 

“Frequently.” 

“For what purpose?” 

“To see that pretty compositor, usually.” 

“You are in love with her, you say?” 

“I am, and I’m not ashamed of it.” 

“Would you make her your wife?” 

“Gladly, if she would consent.” 

“When were you at the printing-house to see her 
last?” 

Croly asked these preliminary questions to throw 
the young man off his guard and calm his excessive 
agitation. And the ruse was succeeding admirably. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


151 


Clarence Blain seemed reassured, and calmly re- 
plied to the last question : 

“I have not met her since the day of the tragedy.” 

“Have you tried to see her since?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Do you know where she lives?” 

“I do.” 

“And you have not been there?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You have been once to the printing-house since 
that day?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Tut, tut. Tell me the truth, and keep clear of 
tangles that you will have to unravel afterward. 
You have been at the printing-house, as I said, since 
the day you mention.” 

Clarence started, and eyed the detective with sud- 
den suspicion. 

“Have you been shadowing me?” he demanded. 
“No.” 

“Then why do you dispute my statement?” 

“Because I know better. You visited the building 
at near midnight, night before last.” 

The young man caught at a pillar for support, his 
face growing deathly white. But by a powerful 
effort he controlled himself, and exclaimed, in a 
tone of comparative calmness : 

“I did visit the printing-house at the hour you 
mention, but not to meet Stella Brandon.” 

“What was your errand?” 

“A private matter.” 

“An appointment?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“With George Dyer, the foreman?” 


152 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Instead of growing more excited the young man 
became calmer. He firmly answered : 

“I went there to meet George Dyer, the foreman.” 

“How did you know you would find him there?” 

“He made the appointment.” 

“You saw him?” 

“I did, sir.” 

“And received a communication from him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Concerning the murder of Hiram Waldron?” 

“Indirectly.” 

“Will you state the communication in detail?” 

“I am not at liberty to do so, sir.” 

“Does it implicate any one?” 

“It does.” 

“Then what right have you, young man, to with- 
hold the facts?” 

“Because there is a divine law of fidelity above 
the human law of vengeance. You detectives seek 
only to punish unhappy human beings for so-called 
crimes which you would yourselves commit under 
like circumstances. I will tell you frankly, Mr. 
Croly, that I have evidence involving some one in 
this crime. But it implicates an innocent person — 
one as innocent as an angel.” 

Croly was impressed by the sudden vehemence of 
the young man. The latter’s words, although seem- 
ing to admit much, yet left the truth as deeply hid- 
den as before. 

The detective regarded the other fixedly for a mo- 
ment, and then quietly said : 

“You are attempting a wild impossibility, my 
man, in trying to shield a guilty person by so plain 
a subterfuge. You expect me to infer from your 
words that the person implicated is a woman — per- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


153 


haps that pretty compositor. Perhaps they have 
masculine angels, but when that epithet is used as a 
comparison, we generally infer that a female is al- 
luded to. You probably love your father dearly, for 
he is evidently very indulgent. But I fancy he 
would smile to be called ‘innocent as an angel.’ Of 
course I know you refer only to him.” 

Clarence Blain recoiled with a startled cry, his lips 
white and quivering, his small, delicate hands 
clenched. 

One of those small hands was thrown outward 
with impetuous force, and but for a timely move- 
ment to one side the detective would have received 
the full force of the blow upon the side of his face. 

Before the young man could repeat the audacious 
attempt, however, his arms were seized in a grasp 
of iron, and he was forced back against the closed 
door. 

In vain he struggled and writhed under the stern 
gaze of Croly’s spectacled eyes. 

"Foolish boy!” the detective exclaimed, after a 
moment of silence, "I have learned more than I 
expected, and at present I shall not request you to 
add to my information upon this point. I ask you to 
inform me concerning the hiding-place of George 
Dyer, however. Do you know whither he went after 
your interview of night before last?” 

"I do not,” Blain huskily replied. 

"The truth, remember, for I shall detect a false- 
hood.” 

"On my life, I swear it!” 

"That will do, unless you have seen him since?” 

"I have not.” 

"Then you may go. But let me warn you not to 
make a bad matter worse by hasty action. If your 


154 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


father is involved in this crime it is bad enough for 
you. And I more than half suspect that he is.” 

Clarence Blain unlocked the door without a word, 
and entered the mansion. 

Croly turned away, but was amazed to see a tall, 
shadowy form leaning against one of the pillars. It 
was the Hindoo detective. 

Croly bent his head forward, a scornful smile curl- 
ing his thin lips. 

“So this is your style of beating a rival— stealing 
his points while he does his work?” he exclaimed, a 
fine scorn in his tones. 

Hyjah’s impassive countenance did not change its 
expression as he met the other’s gaze. 

“You are mistaken, Mr. Croly,” was his calmly 
uttered reply. 

“Do you deny that you came back to listen?” 

“I certainly deny it.” 

“Then please explain your purpose. You must 
have overheard our interview whether you intended 
to do so or not. So the result is the same.” 

“I overheard only a few remarks, and those were 
of no importance, Mr. Croly. The fact is, I had 
pumped the young man pretty dry before you began. 
I think I got nearly all the points he had to give that 
were worth listening to. Of course, you and I both 
know that Julian Blain is not to be suspected.” 

Hyjah spoke with such quiet conviction that Croly 
was again nonplused. Was the Hindoo really so 
far ahead of him in this case? The younger detec- 
tive realized that he must work hard to win his spurs 
in this race of skill. 

“Why did you return, then?” Croly quietly asked. 

“To satisfy your curiosity upon a point which 
troubles you. ” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


155 


“What is that?” 

“You just asked Blain about George Dyer’s hid- 
ing-place. As you are a young man, your interest in 
that direction is pardonable, and I am willing to 
satisfy it. If you will follow me now I will guar- 
antee to bring you face to face with George Dyer 
himself.” 

Croly, after a moment’s hesitation, said, in an in- 
credulous tone : 

“I shall hold you to your promise, sir. Come, let 
us lose no time.” 

The rival detectives hastened away from the man- 
sion side by side. 


156 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE STRUGGLE ON THE BRIDGE. 

“That detective is awfully smart, and no mistake 
— regular nonpareil, he is, from A to Z!” 

Steve Lawton was trudging along the busy street 
as he made this soliloquy, heedless of the sights and 
sounds to which he was so accustomed, yet too alert 
to permit the most trivial incident to escape his 
keen, restless eyes. 

It was toward the close of the day marked by the 
action recorded in the preceding chapter. 

The boy had no special object in view at the mo- 
ment. He had, however, started forth with a de- 
termination to do something brilliant. 

“I loafed around yesterday, and didn’t do nothin’, 
and if I loaf to-day without strikin’ a leader of some 
sort, that smart detective will take me for a ninny 
— sort of dead matter that’s no good any more.” 

The boy paused at a corner which he reached at 
the moment of making this observation, and glanced 
alertly about him. Almost at the same moment he 
saw a large man, with a slouching figure, glance fur- 
tively toward him from the opposite side of the 
street. » 

The glance was but momentary, and was so has- 
tily withdrawn that it was evident it was not in- 
tended to attract the boy’s attention. 

But in this intention the man failed. Steve was 
as wide awake as a weasel. And he was as sly as 
he was observant. Without appearing to have seen 
the slouching figure at all, the lad sauntered over to 
a peanut-stand, which was attended by a pug-nosed 
youngster somewhat older than himself. 

“How’s trade, Johnny?” Steve familiarly asked. 

“Nuthin’ extra, Steve. How’s yourn?” 

“I’m out of a job.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


157 


“Get bounced ?” 

“Naw. Bounced myself, as it were.” 

“How’s that? Thought you was publishin’ a news- 
paper instead of peddlin’ ’em as yer used to do.” 

Johnny’s speech contained a commingling of sar- 
casms and eager interest. He and Steve had once 
been chums. Hence the older boy entertained a de- 
gree of envy toward the other when the latter was 
picked up by Mr. Waldron and made an apprentice 
in the great printing-house. 

“The business got too monotonous for me, so I took 
to the street again,” said Steve, carelessly. All the 
while he kept an eya on the slouching figure upon 
the other side of the street. 

“Guess you didn’t suit t’other man when the chap 
that picked yer up was shot, eh?” Johnny shrewdly 
observed. 

“I suited well ’nough. But he didn’t suit me. 
That’s how it stood. And when it come to me or 
Mr. Blain gittin’ out of the business, I thought that 
on the whole I’d better be the one. Make less talk, 
yer know. Don’t wanter sell out yer stand here, do 
yer?” 

“What yer give?” 

6 ‘Dollar seventy-five. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yoi^go eat yerself ! Think yer can git stock 
and good will of a mercantile ’stablishment at that 
figger? Guess not, Steve.” 

“Glad you didn’t take me up, ’cause I don’t like 
the peanut business anyway. More ’propriate for old 
women and one-legged soldiers than ’tis for a young 
fellow like me. Good-by, Johnny; I must be goin’.” 

Steve dodged an apple which the other in his 
wrath flung spitefully at him, but succeeded in 
catching the fruit before it rolled into the gutter, 
and sauntered down the street, coolly eating it. 

While Steve was enjoying the discomfiture of the 
other boy, he had not been idle in his capacity of 
detective. He had seen the slouching figure on the 
other side of the street saunter past, quickening his 
pace as he increased the distance between himself 
and the boy. 


158 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Wants to keep out of my sight, that’s certain,” 
was Steve’s mental comment. 

The latter’s good-humored badgering of Johnny 
evidently quieted the stranger’s suspicions, for the 
man turned his back full upon the boy, and strode 
along the street as though in haste to reach his des- 
tination. 

The street was near the New York approach to 
the Brooklyn Bridge, and it speedily became evi- 
dent that the man intended to cross. 

“If he’s goin’ over, so am I,” Steve decided, fol- 
lowing at a safe distance behind. 

The man did not take a car to cross the bridge, as 
the boy had expected, but kept to the promenade in- 
stead. 

“I can’t lose him now, that’s certain,” he com- 
mented, and waited until the slouching figure had 
passed well from view. 

Steve groped in his pocket for a penny for toll. 
As he did so a look of consternation came over his 
face, for there was not a coin of any denomination 
upon his person, and he had no other money. 

A treacherous hole in his pocket explained his 
situation. He had started out with money enough 
for present needs, and now he found himself unable 
to pay the one-cent toll required. 

“Pretty go, if I must lose that chap je$t ’cause I 
ain’t got a cent!” he exclaimed. 

But he was at a loss only for a moment. A swift 
glance about him, and lie espied a portly, good-na- 
tured looking gentleman sauntering past. He was 
plainly a stranger in the city, bent upon crossing 
the bridge for the magnificent view which it 
affords. 

Steve stepped up to him, and clutched his arm. 

“Beg pardon, mister,” he said, by way of accost- 
ing him. 

“What is it, my lad?” the gentleman asked. 

“Got any pennies, to spare? I want to pay my 
toll, and haven’t a red to my name. Hole in my 
pocket, yer see.” 

The man took out three or four pennies, but hesi- 
tated as he was about to proffer them to the boy. 


UNDER HIS THUMB* 


159 


“If I give pennies to everybody that asks me I 
shall have enough to do,” he exclaimed, adding: 
“I’ve just paid toll for one man; I must draw the 
line somewhere. ” 

And he coolly returned the pennies to his pocket. 

He would have walked on, had the youngster not 
clung tenaciously to his arm. 

“Did you pay for that slouching chap?” Steve 
eagerly asked. 

“Yes.” 

“He asked yer to?” 

“Yes ” 

“What else did he say?” 

“That he had lost all his money, and that he must 
cross over to see his sick mother.” 

“Did you swaller that yarn?” 

“Just the same as I swallow yours, sonny. So 
trudge along:. ” 

The man flung off the boy’s grasp impatiently, 
and hastened on. 

Steve watched him disappear from view with a mis- 
chievous grin, and a moment later advanced, paid 
his toll with a bright new copper, and then trudged 
on his way in pursuit of the slouching stranger. 

“My hand is small, and the old duffer’s pocket 
was big, so it wasn’t so very hard to borrow a cent, 
after all. I’ll give it back if I ever see him again. I 
ain’t no pickpocket, but I must have a penny when 
so much depends on it,” Steve remarked, with a 
chuckle. 

As yet he had seen nothing of the man of whom he 
was in pursuit on tho bridge. He hastened forward 
lest he should lose him, after all. 

Still the stranger did not appear, and at length the 
lad halted and looked backward. 

“He’s given me the slip after all,” he exclaimed. 

“No he hasn’t; he’s right here!” exclaimed a 
gruff voice so close at hand that the lad sprang 
backward with a startled ejaculation. 

He found himself face to face with the slouching 
figure which he had been pursuing ; and before he 
could recoil beyond his reach, the stranger had 
seized the boy’s arm with no gentle hand. 


160 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


“Bill Leary !” Steve exclaimed, recognizing the 
coarse face of the ruffian. 

“And you was playin’ watch-dog at my heels!” 
the man growled, in return. 

Steve realized upon the instant that the man had 
fathomed his purpose. He perceived also that there 
was no one near on whom he could call for assist- 
ance should he require any. A bevy of girls were 
strolling past them, chatting and laughing. An old 
gentleman stood near the rail, gazing out upon the 
panorama spread upon the river. Farther away were 
other pedestrians, but, as luck would have it, all 
were women or children. 

The lad took in the situation at a single glance. 
Then he turned his eyes up to the fierce face of his 
enemy. 

“Let me go!” he exclaimed. 

‘Tell me what you was doggin’ me for, then?” the 
ruffian fiercely retorted. 

“Haven’t I jest as good a right to cross this bridge 
as you have?” 

“You’ve no right to watch me.” 

“Yer don’t know as I was watchin’ yer, mister.” 

“Don’t I know it? Guess I don’t keep my eyes 
shut all the time, my fine youngster. Now, look 
here. Who sent you to shadow me— hey?” 

“Nobody.” 

“The truth— who sent ye?” 

“I said nobody did. If you think yer can make 
me say anything different, jest try it, that’s all I’ve 
got to say.” 

The ruffian cast a furtive glance about him. Never 
was that section of the bridge more deserted than at 
that moment. Everything seemed to favor the 
ruffian’s brutal purpose. 

“You’re too crusty by half, my sharp lad,” he ex- 
claimed, tightening his grip upon the boy’s arm. 

“Let go of me!” 

The boy struggled with all his might against that 
powerful clasp. 

Of course his assailant was far too powerful for 
him to cope with successfully, by means of physical 
strength alone. But weight and muscle cannot al- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


161 


ways overcome a determined will, when that will 
has an active brain behind it. 

Steve writhed and wriggled with so much agility 
that for a minute the man had all he could manage. 

Then, when he felt that he could resist no longer, 
he gave utterance to a loud, prolonged cry. 

The instant that the cry passed his lips he ceased 
struggling, and with a low moan of pain sank as 
though lifeless at the ruffian’s feet. 

In the fading light the lad’s face assumed an al- 
most ghastly hue, while his lips and cheek were 
smeared with blood. 

Leary instantly relaxed his grasp, and allowed 
the lad to lie as he had fallen, at the same time 
glancing hastily about to see if he was observed. 
He saw a man running toward him ; and without 
waiting to see whether it was an officer or citizen, 
the ruffian darted away, and ran as for dear life 
toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge. 

The man, who was a bridge policeman, did not at- 
tempt to pursue the ruffian. Instead he hastened to 
the side of the boy, who was in the act of rising to 
his feet. 

“What’s the rumpus? — did he try to kill you, 
boy?” the officer demanded, catching sight of the 
lad’s blood-smeared features. 

Steve Lawton uttered no response. He eluded the 
outstretched hand of the patrolman, and the next 
instant was running like the wind in pursuit of Bill 
Leary, the “ tough.” 


162 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Stella’s trial. 

It was indeed George Dyer, the missing foreman 
of Blain & 'Waldron’s printing-house, who stood in 
the door-way of the lonely hut, face to face with 
Stella Brandon and Katie Byrnes. 

It was no wonder they uttered expressions of mu- 
tual amazement as they recognized each other. 

The young man gazed in silence into the beauti- 
ful face of the vagabond’s daughter for a full min- 
ute. Then he lowered his lantern, and stepped 
under the rude shelter. 

“I’m not going to run away from you, Stella,” he 
declared, something like an expression of relief in 
his tones. 

“Why should you flee from any one, George?” she 
demanded, stepping backward, and eying him sus- 
piciously. 

“That is not easy to explain,” he replied. And 
after a moment’s pause he added: “Were you run- 
ning away, too?” 

“Yes.” 

“From whom?” 

“The detectives.” 

“You don’t mean to say, Stella, that they suspect 
you of anything wrong?” 

“I do not know what they suspect. But they are 
trying to take me — as a witness, perhaps. They sus- 
pect some one else.” 

“Whom?” 

She looked straight into the young man’s eyes as 
she answered : 

“You can guess as well as I can tell you.” 

“Your father, I suppose — Carl Brandon.” 

“Of course. He is suspected of everything evil. 
And yet he never wronged any one.” 

“Perhaps they may be right, Stella. Carl Bran- 
don has a bad temper, you know.” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


163 


“He is innocent, George Dyer, and you know it.” 

“I know it?” 

“Yes, you. You know who shot Hiram Waldron. 
I — I— half believe you committed the crime.” 

The young man’s face flushed to a livid hue, and 
he once more raised the lantern so as to throw the 
light full upon the girl’s countenance. 

“I can prove your accusation to be false — so far 
as I am implicated, at least,” he said, his voice 
husky with suppressed passion. “But I will admit 
that I know who fired the fatal shot. And if you 
wish, I can tell you the culprit’s name/” 

He said this so unwaveringly that it sent a sharp, 
deathly pain to the girl’s heart. 

She knew that George Dyer was not believed to 
be guilty of the murder. She knew that he -was be- 
lieved to have been a witness of the tragedy. There- 
fore, if her father was, even in appearance, a party 
to the affair, the foreman had the power of giving 
him over to the authorities. 

Not that Stella for a moment really suspected her 
father of guilt. There was an intrinsic nobility in 
his character which, in her eyes, placed him above 
the shadow of deliberate criminality. Yet, under- 
neath all her confidence, struggling against her love, 
her convictions, the power of her own will, was a 
half-defined, yet haunting suspicion — a shadowy 
horror that she had not dared even mutely to shape 
in words. 

Carl Brandon did, in truth, possess an impetuous 
disposition. H^ felt keenly the sting of injustice 
which had been shown him by the firm, from the 
membership of which he had been “crowded out,” 
because of his irregular habits. Despite these cir- 
cumstances, nothing could have tempted him, in his 
right mind, to commit the cold-blooded crime that 
caused the city to ring with indignation. 

So far the vagabond was above suspicion. 

But there was another possibility — a dreadful, 
lurking possibility, which could have no existence 
except in the case of a man with dissipated habits. 

Carl Brandon was often intoxicated. Not unfre- 
quently all his native dignity was clouded by this 


164 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


fatal weakness. And at such times he was not al- 
ways fully conscious of his own acts, although he 
would apparently be comparatively sober. He had 
committed many petty offenses, while in that con- 
dition, at various times. And upon each of those 
occasions he afterward retained not the slightest 
recollection of his own action. 

If this were possible in lighter offenses, was it not 
likewise so in the case of the Waldron tragedy? 

Stella did not like to think for even a moment of 
this dreadful possibility. Yet it would obtrude upon 
her mind in spite of all her efforts to banish it. 

And now, with the words of George Dyer ringing 
in her ears, the horrifying suspicion became stronger, 
ancl for a moment overwhelmed all her courageous 
confidence, which, until then, had been unyielding. 

For an instant she stood weak and trembling 
under the unwavering gaze of the young man. 

Then her resolution returned, reinforced by a reali- 
zation of a new necessity. 

Perhaps her father did commit the crime. In a 
drunken frenzy he might have shot Hiram Waldron, 
and upon recovery of his senses no recollection of the 
act lingered in his mind. 

With compressed lips Stella accepted the possibil- 
ity, and with electrical rapidity she decided what 
to do. 

Whether innocent or unconsciously guilty, her 
vagabond father must be defended. And, friendless 
and an outcast, who but herself could defend him? 

Braced by this thought, the brave girl resolutely 
met the gaze of the foreman. 

“If I desire it, you can tell me the culprit's name?" 
she repeated, in a low, clear tone. 

“That is what I said," he replied. 

“If you know who shot Hiram Waldron, why do 
you shield the guilty man?" 

Dyer hesitated, and then answered : 

“Can you not imagine?" 

“I cannot." 

“You know what I have told you many times— 
that I love you, and that I would spare you any pain 
that I could at whatever cost to myself." 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


165 


The young man spoke earnestly, yet a flash of re- 
sentment from the girl’s eyes showed that she dis- 
trusted him. 

, “I do not believe you,” she slowly said. 

“Do not believe that I care for you?” 

“I do not believe you would make so great a sacri- 
fice for me or for any one, except yourself.” 

“You do me injustice.” 

“Then the punishment will be mine in the end.” 

“I would shield your father for your sake.” 

“This is not what I wish you to tell me, George 
Dyer. You say that you saw the shot fired that 
killed Hiram Waldron?” 

“I did.” 

“And, therefore, you can tell the name of the cul- 
prit?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then do so.” 

The young man stared at the speaker in amaze- 
ment. Then he glanced toward Katie Byrnes, who 
had not uttered a word. 

“Do you wish me to tell in her presence?” indicat- 
ing the Irish girl by a nod. 

“Yes, in her presence — she is more to be trusted 
than you are !” was the steady reply. 

The young man uttered something like a smoth- 
ered oath. He stretched out one hand, and rudely 
seized Stella’s arm. 

“You will goad me too far!” he cried. 

“I wish to goad you to telling the truth — that is 
all. I do not believe my father committed the Wal- 
dron murder. If he did, and you know it, I wish you 
to tell me. Is it worse for me to know than to fear 
the worst? I have a right to know. Look into my 
eyes, George Dyer, and tell me the truth. How, 
now ! ’ 9 

She had torn her arm free from his grasp, and 
now clutched his in turn. Her face was very pale, 
her eyes glowed, she trembled violently. 

He recoiled before her, his eyes fell, and in a low, 
dogged tone he said : 

“I shall not tell you. You would not believe me if 
I did, so it is useless for you to ask me further.” 


166 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


She pushed him quickly from her, impetuously 
crying : 

“Then you do not know.” 

“I do know.” 

“Why do you refuse to tell?” 

“Because I dare not disclose the truth. “ 

“You dare not?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then you are a coward. That is why you fled as 
soon as the authorities began to investigate the mys- 
tery — because you were a coward.” 

“You do not understand, Stella. I am in a ter- 
rible situation, and in which it is not easy to say 
what is duty. If you would only be more friendly I 
would tell you all, and act upon your advice, for you 
are interested as well as I, you may be sure of that.” 

“I can tell you what to do. If the one implicated 
is near and dear to you, shield him, though that may 
not be the highest form of duty. But the public is so 
blood-thirsty that it does not always do a criminal 
justice. So I would shield one whom I loved at any 
cost. But, otherwise, expose the miscreant. That is 
your duty.” 

“You are braver than I.” 

“I trust I am.” 

“I have half a mind to confide in you, Stella.” 

“If the secret is yours I should not keep it.” 

“I say it is yours also.” 

“Then tell me, as I have urged you to do.” 

The young man hesitated, glancing furtively out 
into the darkness that so densely surrounded the hut. 

Then he bent toward the girl and quickly ex- 
claimed : 

“Listen, Stella — I will tell you all I know concern- 
ing the printing-house tragedy.” 

Stella Brandon could not wholly restrain the 
eagerness which she felt to hear the revelation, for 
she instinctively felt that the young man really in- 
tended making her his confidante. His weak, waver- 
ing nature had yielded to hers, which was so strong 
and resolute. 

“Katie, stand back — what he has to say is for my 


UNDEE HIS THUMB. 


167 


ears first. Afterward I may confide in you,” she ex- 
claimed. 

Her faithful friend complied with the request. At 
the same time Dyer stepped nearer the outcast’s 
daughter. 

“It is a short story that I have to tell,” he began, 
speaking scarcely above a whisper. “But it requires 
a little preliminary explanation. Upon the morning 
of the tragedy, soon after my arrival at the print- 
ing-house, I saw your father enter the counting- 
room. This was before you visited Mr. Waldron, 
upon the same morning, which I also observed. 
Then, as I ” 

George Dyer’s eyes, which had until this moment 
been fixed steadfastly upon the face of his beautiful 
listener, now looked past her toward the entrance of 
the hut. 

At the same time they became suddenly distended 
with terror; his jaw fell nervelessly; his counte- 
nance assumed a sickly, ashen hue. 

At the same instant a tall shadow appeared out- 
lined against the dingy walls. 


168 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CROLY USES HIS SKILL. 

The Hindoo detective had promised to lead Croly, 
his more youthful but no less determined rival, to 
the hiding-place of George Dyer. 

Mr. Croly was skeptical, yet sufficiently curious to 
follow him. 

They hastened to the building upon the same street 
upon which the printing-house stood. Most of the 
buildings upon that section of the street were old, 
and this one was no exception. 

Three other buildings stood between it and the 
scene of the tragedy, and these were devoted to va- 
rious kinds of business, some of the floors being oc- 
cupied as offices and a few tenements. 

The door by which the Hindoo entered admitted 
them to a sales-room, through which they passed un- 
challenged, descending a flight of stairs, after which 
they found themselves in a dimly lighted room, 
stored with bales and boxes. 

Here the Hindoo paused, and said : 

“Let it be distinctly understood that you are not 
to take advantage of this opportunity to arrest or in- 
terview George Dyer. Do you agree?” 

“You have my word for it,” Croly replied. 

“Yet, in due time, if you wish to return to this 
pla,ce alone for the purpose of taking him, you are 
at liberty to do so. ” 

“I will bear that in mind.” 

“But at present you are only to look into his face 
to make sure of his identity. You are not to speak 
to him. He will not speak to you.” 

“Very well. Let us lose no time. ” 

Hyjah led the way along a passage-way lined with 
stacks of bales and boxes, and they soon came to a 
door with glass panels. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


169 


Beyond this door was a small bare room, lighted 
by a single gas jet. The light was sufficient to re- 
veal with perfect distinctness the figure of a man 
seated upon a rickety chair reading a morning news- 
paper. 

Hyjah stepped forward, and tapped lightly upon 
the glass with his forefinger. 

The man sprang to his feet, flung down the paper, 
and advanced toward the door. 

“Now, look/’ said the Hindoo detective to his ri- 
val. 

Croly stepped to the front, and found himself face 
to face with George Dyer, the foreman. 

The young man evidently recognized the detective 
at a glance, for he recoiled slightly, his countenance 
assuming a death-like pallor. 

But he did not attempt to flee. Instead he stood 
motionless as a statue, gazing squarely into the eyes 
of Croly. 

He did not open his lips ; his hands hung at his 
sides, his fingers worked nervously, it could be seen 
that he trembled violently. 

For a full minute Croly gazed into Dyer’s face, to 
make sure there could be no mistake. He had met 
the foreman several times before the day of the 
tragedy, and was perfectly familiar with his fea- 
tures, and likewise with the many little motions and 
gestures which are as useful as faces for the identi- 
fication of individuals. Dyer bore the scrutiny as 
though it were a disagreeable ordeal which he could 
not escape. 

At last, when Croly turned away, the young man 
gave an audible sigh of relief. 

“Are you satisfied, Mr. Croly?” Hyjah asked. 

“I am satisfied.” 

“Then we will go.” 

“Wait; one question.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“George Dyer is here for me to look at by your 
orders?” 

“That is no secret, so I admit it,” 

“Very well; we will go.” 


170 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


They returned to the street. There, before part- 
ing, Hyjah said: 

k T will favor you with still further explanation, 
as it may be of use to you and no injury to my 
chances of success. I have met and talked with 
George Dyer, and he has given to me the name of 
the person who shot Hiram Waldron. I forced him 
to make the statement, yet I do not feel sure it is 
correct. In fact, I am convinced that it is not, and 
that I am no nearer proving the culprit’s guilt than 
in the beginning.” 

“You think, then, that Dyer is mistaken?” 

“I did not say that.” 

“You are evidently following out a definite 
theory.” 

“I am following the slender thread of a clew 
which you overlooked in your investigation. Slen- 
der as it is, however, I believe that it will defeat the 
sophistry in which you place so much confidence.” 

The spectacled eyes of Croly met those of the Hin- 
doo with penetrating keenness, while a slight flush 
tinged his smooth, pale cheeks. 

“To what sophistry do you refer?” he quickly 
asked. 

“That of the lines on no two human thumbs being 
exactly alike, upon which your jealously guarded 
clew is based.” 

Croly was astonished to discover that Hyjah had 
fathomed his secret. He supposed that his theory 
and the strange clew were known to no man save 
himself. 

“I hope you have not been spying upon me?” he 
exclaimed. 

“Not at all.” 

“Then how did you know?” 

“How? I had my eyes open, that is all. I saw 
that a piece had been cut from the window sash in 
the counting-room where the murder took place. I 
knew that no one but a wide-awake detective would 
do such a thing. I have also heard of the theory 
about the lines on human thumbs. I confess that I 
never tested it, because I did not think it worth 
while.” 


171 


UNDER HIS THUMB* 

“You consider it worthless, then?” 

“Ido.” 

“And consequently have no fear of me as a rival?” 

“You are very sharp, and if you had anything like 
a reasonable clew to work on I should have my 
hands full to get ahead of you. You will learn not 
to put confidence in sophistries.” 

Croly smiled, and quietly answered : 

“Perhaps I shall. But you must not believe me 
too gullible. I do not swallow everything that 
doesn’t happen to be a whale. I’m much obliged to 
you for your caution, and I respect your skill even 
more than you think ; still I shall try and swing my 
end of this case till somebody wins. If you come 
out ahead we’ll shake hands. If I am the win- 
ner ” 

“We will shake hands the same,” said Hyjah, as 
Croly hesitated. 

Thus they parted. 

Croly, the detective, hastened to the printing- 
house and entered the counting-room, which was 
open. 

He found Mr. Blain there before him, looking pale 
and haggard. 

After exchanging salutations, Mr. Blain said : 

“I hope you are making progress upon the case, 
Mr. Croly?” 

“Oh, yes,” was the ready reply. 

“Do you suspect any person of the crime?” 

“I do.” 

“May I ask whom?” 

“I would rather not speak names at this stage of 
my investigations. But I will allow you to infer what 
you please from that which I am about to say. I de- 
sire you to assist me in an experiment, and also to 
answer a few questions.” 

“Go on, sir. I am ready to do all in my power to 
aid you.” 

“Have you lately met the vagabond, Carl Bran- 
don?” 

“Yes, many times.” 

“Then you are perfectly familiar with his personal 
appearance and peculiarities?” 


172 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Yes.” 

“Did you ever notice his hands particularly?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Has one finger upon his right hand been ampu- 
tated at the first joint?” 

“Yes, the forefinger.” 

“And are his hands rather narrow and long?” 

“They are.” 

Croly stepped to the window by which it was sup- 
posed that the murderer of Mr. Waldron escaped, 
and seemed to examine the sash closely. His own 
person was between Blain and the window, and the 
thing which he deftly accomplished was not ob- 
served by the other. 

Returning to the gentleman, he said : 

“Brandon is a taller man than yourself, is he not?’ 

“Yes, by a couple of inches.” 

Croly seized several quires of blank printing 
paper, which lay in a chair, and placed it upon the 
floor under the window. 

“Please step upon that, sir,” he requested. 

Mr. Blain complied. 

“Now you stand about as high as Carl Brandon, 
were he in the same position?” the detective in- 
quired. 

“I should say I did.” 

“Now, please, raise the window-sash. Do it as 
though you were in haste. Wait ! I wish to stand 
back so I can see you.” 

Mr. Blain complied. But he found it difficult to do 
so, because he was too tall to grasp the sash to ad- 
vantage. 

When the window was raised, Croly said : 

“That is right; thank you. I now see just how 
the act was done, and it is a great help where one 
inust work out a clew almost wholly from imagina- 
tion. You may step down now, and I will close the 
window.” 

Mr. Blain did so, and Croly quickly approached 
the window, scrutinized it closely, and then closed 
the sash. 

What do you make out of it?” Blain questioned, 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


173 


intensely interested in the singular investigations of 
the detective. 

“I make a great deal out of it.” 

“Does the experiment confirm a suspicion?” 

“I cannot tell at present.” 

“Do you suspect Carl Brandon of committing this 
crime?” 

“I must decline to say.” 

“I do not think he would commit so heartless a 
crime, Mr. Croly, unless ” 

“Unless— what?” 

“He was crazed with liquor.” 

“Does he ever reach a stage of intoxication re- 
sembling insanity?” 

“I have known him to do so.” 

“Does he afterward recollect what has taken place 
when he recovers his senses?” 

“He does not, when in that condition.” 

“This is a marked peculiarity of Brandon’s fits of 
intoxication, is it?” 

* “Yes, sir.” 

“You speak from your own observation, Mr. 
Blain? It is important that I obtain evidence of 
that sort upon unimpeachable authority.” 

“I speak concerning Carl Brandon only from my 
own experience with him. I have known him for 
many years. I have known and pitied him.” 

“Very well — that will do. I must now pursue my 
investigations in another quarter.” 

Out upon the street went the detective, and has- 
tened to a spot where he could not be observed. 

Then from his pocket he drew a piece of wax, 
upon one side of which was an impression of the 
window-sash just where the piece had been cut. On 
the other side was the impression, perfect in every 
line, of Julian Blain’s thumb. 

“He little thought how important a clew he was 
furnishing me while I distracted his attention with 
questions and details for which I didn’t care a pica- 
yune,” Croly muttered, as he examined his prize. 

“It is perfect,” he added, a moment later. “And 
now I will compare it with the bloody print that the 


174 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Hindoo scoffs at. We’ll see whether the murderer 
of Hiram Waldron falls under his thumb or mine.” 

The detective hastened to his own private quarters. 
But he did not reach them far in advance of the 
dwarfish being known as Spider, whom he had once 
before encountered under such peculiar circumstan- 
ces. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE SHADOW OF A CONSPIRACY. 

Croly, the detective, having arrived at his private 
room, seated himself at the table where so many 
unique curiosities and criminal clews were collected. 

Then he produced the wax impression of Julian 
Blain’s thumb, which he had obtained in such a 
clever manner. 

This impression he placed upon a small tablet of 
gray marble ; and by its side he deposited the piece 
of window sash which bore the bloody print of the 
murderer’s thumb. 

For several minutes he looked at them carefully. 
As he did so his face flushed with excitement, and 
he bent over them with eager interest. 

The impressions were exactly alike in size and 
shape. So much was distinguishable at a glance. 
And it was also plain that the lines were similar, if 
not the same in detail. 

Exactness in this particular could not be attained 
by a superficial or hasty examination. They must 
be compared line by line through a microscope. 

Before proceeding to do this, the detective took 
from a drawer another wax impression, and placed 
it upon the marble tablet beside the others. This 
was of his own thumb, taken long ago, and used 
many times before in comparison with others. 

Between this and the other impressions there was 
but slight difference as to the size or contour. But 
the naked eye revealed a marked variation in the 
lines — so marked that even an unscientific eye must 
detect the difference. 

‘ 'They’re not all alike, so much is certain,” Croly 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


175 


said, in a low voice. “It remains to be proven 
whether they are all unlike. And to test the relia- 
bility of this clew, I must pit it against the marvel- 
ous skill of Hyjah, the Hindoo. For that he is the 
most skillful detective living, I have not a doubt. If 
I win in this case — and I have scarce a hope of doing 
so — I shall still declare that the Hindoo is the 
shrewdest officer in the world. Mysteries simply 
dissolve under his efforts. He can seem to see 
through walls, read men’s thoughts — do all those 
things which we know to be impossible to a human 
being. Yet he has only natural powers, matured 
and perfected by training. I am young and love my 
profession. Should I succeed in this case, and he 
fail, then it will show that he is not infallible, and 
that there ,is hope of my becoming his equal. Time 
will tell.” 

Croly’s wonderful eyes glowed behind his specta- 
cles with the fire of ambitious resolve. He looked 
then as invincible as the Hindoo himself. The truth 
was, in his modesty, he underrated his own natural 
powers, which, in the mysterious case which he was 
now working out against a great rival, were being 
developed with marvelous rapidity. 

He next took from its case a large microscope, 
the lenses of which were of great power. Still he 
hesitated, as though fearing that a further examina- 
tion might dissolve all his hopes of making a success- 
ful solution of the great mystery. 

As he at length adjusted the microscope, and bent 
over the clew to complete his examination, a violent 
clangor of his office bell interrupted him. 

He hastily placed the impressions in a drawer, and 
then went to the door. 

A message-boy handed him a local message en- 
velope, and said : 

“Fifteen cents, mister.” 

Croly tore open the envelope before paying, and 
read the following : 

“Come to Ho. — Baxter street at once. Very im- 
portant. 

“(Signed) Sieve Lawton.” 


176 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


It was not in Steve’s handwriting of course ; in 
fact, he could not have written it at all. But it was, 
without doubt, written at the dispatch office at 
which it was dated. 

“No reply,” Croly said, audibly, giving the boy 
his money. . 

He hastened to the Twenty -third street station of 
the Third avenue Elevated Road, and took the first 
train, which soon landed him at Grand street. And 
thence he had not far to go to reach the place desig- 
nated in Steve Lawton’s message. 

He was impatient at the interruption, for he had 
been on the eve of settling his doubts in relation to 
the clew which he had been at so much pains to pro- 
cure. Yet he dared not delay a response to the tele- 
gram, for fear that his boy assistant was in serious 
difficulty of some kind. 

Reaching the number in question, he walked past 
it once, furtively scanning the premises. 

It was one of the many dingy brick buildings 
which mark the locality, and there was nothing in 
its appearance to distinguish it from a score of others. 

Croly had not been very long in the city ; yet, like 
a true detective, he had posted himself concerning 
the locality and exact character of all dangerous and 
questionable localities. And, although there were 
many disreputable places in that vicinity, this dingy 
brick building was not in Croly’s list as such. 

He went boldly to the entrance, and, without ring- 
ing the bell, tried to open the door. To his surprise 
it was not locked, but opened readily, and he found 
himself in a narrow hall-way and confronted by an 
uncarpeted staircase. 

Before he could pursue his investigations further, 
a side door was burst violently open, and he was 
confronted by one of the most powerful men he had 
ever encountered. 

The man's complexion was dark as that of a mul- 
atto ; his eyes were small and bright, and like black 
beads ; his arms were bare, disclosing their notted 
muscles and cords. His size, fierceness of aspect, 
and great muscular powers rendered this man a 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


177 


most formidable one in all respects, and Croly invol- 
untarily took a backward step. 

“Hah!” ejaculated the stranger, in a hoarse, 
threatening tone. 

The detective coolly surveyed him from head to 
foot. Then, in exact mimicry of the ruffian, he ex- 
claimed : 

“Hah!” 

The ruffian’s face flamed with anger, and he 
clenched his great hands as though he would crush 
his adversary at a single grip. 

“Who’re you?” the man growled. 

“That’s my affair,” was the retort, in a tone so 
exactly imitating that of the other, that the ruffian 
stared in consternation. But for the difference in the 
words uttered, one might have mistaken the retort 
for an echo. 

“Don’t you mock me !” he roared. 

“Then don’t try to scare me.” 

“What yer here for, eh?’ 

“What are you here for?” 

“I live here.” 

“Well, so do I.” 

“Wffiat do yer mean?” 

“I mean that I live here as much as you do.” 

“Do you say this isn’t my home?” 

“I say just that.” 

“Then I lie, do I?” 

“It appears that you do.” 

“Then you say that to my teeth?” 

“Ho — to your ears. You don’t hear through your 
teeth, do you?” 

The big ruffian evidently preferred blustering to 
fighting, but the slender detective’s irritating retorts 
were more than the big fellow could withstand. 

He stepped toward Croly and sent out a blow 
which seemingly would have felled an ox. 

It would have felled Croly had it hit him. But it 
did not. He adroitly eluded it, and before the man 
had recovered from the momentum of his effort, he 
received a sharp blow from the small, clenched hand 
of the detective that sent him reeling against the 
outer door. 


178 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Jehu!” he gasped, glaring at his cool adversary, 
as though he would devour him. 

“Better luck next time — try again !” Croly retorted. 

The man edged his way around to the other side 
of the hall-way. Divining treachery, the detective 
determined to forestall any further attempt his foe 
might make. 

Watching his chance, Croly suddenly sprang upon 
the giant, clutching the latter by the throat, and 
pressing him forcibly against the wall. 

The ruffian was strong and heavy, but he possessed 
neither agility nor skill. His opponent pressed him 
so closely that he had no time to wield his ponder- 
ous fists in self-defense, save in impotent wrath with 
blows against the air. On the other hand, the fingers 
that pressed his own hairy throat threatened to en- 
tirely shut off his breath. 

In vain he writhed and kicked, and even this poor 
satisfaction was presently denied him by a threat 
that he dared not ignore. 

The cool muzzle of a revolver pressed his fore- 
head, and the voice of Croly, the detective, ex- 
claimed : 

“Stand quiet!” 

The ruffian instantly obeyed, an ashen pallor over- 
spreading his dark face. 

“Don’t kill me!” he gasped. 

“Why not?” 

“I — I was foolin’.” 

“Oh, that’s it? Then I’ll give you a chance to live 
— a small one. You began this picnic, and I’m going 
to end it. Now don’t you stir hand or foot, if you 
care to eat another dinner. Do you mind what I 

say?” 

“I was in fun, I say.” 

“Yes, yes, so am I. You have had your fun, 
though, and now I will take mine. Now tell me 
who gave you orders to attack me in this way?” 

“I — thought you were a burglar ” 

“No, you didn’t. You thought I was a sort of 
sleepy detective that you had caught napping — a 
big blunder, as you see. I’m a detective, but I 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


179 


wasn’t napping. That is the difference. Who told 
you to lay me out?” 

“I did it on my own hook.” 

“You didn’t do it at all, that I can perceive. But 
somebody hired you to try — gave you ten dollars 
probably.” 

The man stared in consternation. 

“Who told you that?” he asked. 

“Nobody, only I took you for one of those ten-dol- 
lar chaps. Now, who hired you?” 

“I don’t know who it was.” 

“How did the man look?” 

“I didn’t see him.” 

“Whom did you see?” 

“A little, wicked-looking wretch known as Spider.” 

Croly was instantly interested. He had encoun- 
tered this stange being once before, under peculiar 
circumstances, as the reader will remember. The 
reader will also remember that Spider had declared 
that he was paid the sum of five dollars to lead the 
detective off the track. Croly had purchased the bill 
which Spider had produced in support of his de- 
claration, and expected to trace it to the one who 
had given it to the strange being. 

While he had used but little time in tracing the 
bill, he had met with success, although of an unex- 
pected character. The bank-note had been given to 
Spider by Carl Brandon, the fugitive and vagabond. 
So much was certain. And thus what promised to 
be a useful clew amounted to naught. 

The detective, in crisp, eager tones, said : 

“Spider gave you ten dollars to entrap me, did he?” 

“Yes.” 

“What did he wish you to do with me?” 

“Detain you here till he ” 

The man abruptly interrupted himself, and shut 
his lips in a way that seemed to declare : “I have 
said too much already.” 

Croly pressed the muzzle of the revolver yet more 
tightly against the man’s temple, and said : 

“You must finish that sentence, my man, and in 
just one minute’s time. Now, speak!” 


180 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A THRILLING SITUATION. 

The big ruffian realized that the imprudent slip of 
his tongue had rendered further secrecy impossible. 

He must tell this determined detective something 
— either the truth or so clever a falsehood that the 
other would not suspect it to be such. 

“Unload the whole business, my man, or it will go 
hard with you, ” said Croly, as the man hesitated, 
cudgeling his brain for a plausible explanation of 
the remark which he had inadvertently made. 

“Spider knew you were coming here, and he 
wanted me to keep you busy till he could ” 

“Could what?” 

“Hide.” 

“That won’t do— too thin altogether,” exclaimed 
the detective, so sharply that the ruffian regretted 
upon the instant the attempt to shield his employer 
further. 

Croly continued : 

“I see I shall have to shoot you, not fatally, but 
enough to stir up your conscience. There is no other 
way by which I can get you to speak the truth.” 

The detective made a movement as though he 
really meditated carrying out his threat. The result 
was magical. 

The burly ruffian flung up both hands, and cried : 

“Mercy, mercy! Don't shoot!” 

“You shall receive no mercy at my hands if you 
try to deceive me in so much as a word. Out with 
the truth, and the whole of it.” 

The man eagerly exclaimed : 

“I will tell you all. Spider wanted me to keep you 
here wffiile he stole something of yours.” 

“While he stole something?” 

“That’s what he said, boss.” 

“What did he wish to steal?” 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


181 


“Something you got for a clew to a murder mys- 
tery, a bloody mark, or something of that sort, he 
said. That is all I know about it, boss.” 

The effect of this declaration upon Croly was 
startling. 

His muscular hands suddenly clutched the ruffian 
with greater force, and before the latter could make 
any show of resistance, he was hurled violently to 
the floor. 

Then, without waiting for the man to regain his 
feet, Croly flung open the outer door, and dashed 
out upon the street. 

In an almost incredibly brief space of time the de- 
tective had reached his private apartments. 

The instant he passed inside the door he knew that 
some one had been there in his absence. 

A hasty examination confirmed his apprehensions. 

The bloody thumb-print — that singular clew upon 
which he had based his hopes of winning the case 
against his great rival — was gone. 

Not only this, but the wax impression which he 
had obtained that morning, also. There were miss- 
ing, besides these, several trinkets, of less value and 
importance. 

“This is the work of that dwarfish wretch called 
Spider,” Croly exclaimed, the moment that he had 
ascertained to a certainty the fact of his having 
been robbed. 

He promptly returned to his outer room and rang 
a sharp summons. 

A pale, astute-looking girl answered his ring, and 
stood upon the threshold with an air of quiet defer- 
ence. 

“Minnie, whom did you admit in my absence?” he 
sternly demanded. 

“No one, sir,” was the low reply. 

“Are you sure, girl?” 

“I always obey my orders, sir.” 

“Has no one visited my rooms to-day except my- 
self?” 

“Nobody but the boy, sir.” 

“What boy?” 

“The One you told me to send up if he called.” 


182 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“Steve Lawton?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I have not seen him.” 

“He called, and I sent him up stairs, sir.” 

“At what time?” 

“Directly after you came in, some two hours 
since.” 

“How long after I came in?” 

“Not three minutes, sir.” 

“He did not come to my room, at any rate. So 
there is a mistake somewhere, Minnie. How did the 
boy appear?” 

“He was small, and very queer in his ways, with 
a head like a ball, and odd, sharp eyes ” 

“Spider!” Croly interrupted, adding, sharply: 
“You committed a great blunder in admitting that 
fellow. Did he say he was Steve Lawton?” 

“Yes, sir; and asked to see you. And you remem- 
ber you told me to send him up if he called for you 
when you were here. I don’t see that I am entirely 
to blame, sir.” 

“I shall not blame you at all ; so don’t be alarmed. 
This boy, or whatever he may be called, did not 
come to my room while I was there. Instead he hid 
somewhere near until I went out, and then got into 
my room and took some articles of great value. So 
in future we must be more vigilant. Now, tell me 
when Spider went out?” 

“Only a few minutes ago, sir.” 

“During my absence?” 

“I did not know you had been out.” 

“Which way did he go?” 

“Toward Third avenue.” 

“To take the elevated road, of course. He is of the 
sort that likes rapid transit at such a time. Now, I 
have something to do to follow him, for I shall do 
nothing until my clew is recovered. While lam 
gone, Minnie, do not admit any one, not even if he 
pretends to be the President of the United States. 
You will mind what I tell you, Minnie?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

To an ordinary person it would have seemed an 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


183 


impossible undertaking to trace the shrewd being 
who had taken such hasty flight. 

It in reality required time and patience. Yet Croly 
accomplished the task with such methodical accuracy 
that before the hour of nine that evening he had 
“spotted” the exact place where Spider had taken 
refuge. The spot was one of the most notoriously 
lawless in the city — a resort for thieves and house- 
breakers at all times ; and often sought as a place of 
refuge by criminals of the most desperate descrip- 
tion hiding from the police. 

Why such resorts as these are not entirely broken 
up by the authorities it is not easy to explain. That 
they do exist, however, is a fact which any person 
familiar with the byways of the great metropolis can 
attest. 

Croly realized that the most perilous part of his 
undertaking was before him. 

The case was one that required such delicate hand- 
ling that he dared not call on the police for assist- 
ance. There was but one man in the city whom he 
would have trusted to aid him in this matter. That 
one was the Hindoo detective, his rival. 

Of course, he did not for an instant think of call- 
ing upon him for assistance. 

“I win alone, and against him, or I do not win at 
all,” Croly declared, in an undertone, as he ap- 
proached the dilapidated old rookery in which he be- 
lieved Spider to have sought refuge. 

This building, or rather cluster of buildings, were 
little better than a heap of brick and mortar seem- 
ingly tottering on their foundations. 

They were separated near the middle by a covered 
court, which was dark and filthy beyond descrip- 
tion. 

Croly stealthily entered this court, passed along its 
entire length, and presently found himself in a 
square open court beyond. In the center of this 
space a large pole had been erected for the support 
of several telephone and telegraph wires, for which 
the crumbling bricks of the buildings had been found 
insecure. 

A hasty survey of the premises showed the detec- 


184 


UNDEE HIS THUMB, 


tive a way by which he could reach a projection of 
one of the roofs, and thus gain an entrance to the 
ruins, which it would not be easy to do by way of a 
door or lower window. 

This plan, which was hastily formed, he did not 
proceed at once to carry into effect. He first care- 
fully reconnoitered the premises, peering into each 
dark corner to make sure that no person lurked 
there to spy upon his movements. 

In poking among some rubbish the detective was 
rewarded by seeing a crouching, shapeless mass of 
rags move clumsily, then sit erect in the form of a 
man. 

Croly instantly seized the ragged figure by the 
shoulders, and held him so that he could not raise to 
his feet, should he try to do so. 

“Wha — what yer want?” drawled the man, his 
speech and manner unmistakably betraying his con- 
dition. 

“I want you to keep still, that is all.” 

“Ain’t I still ’nough, I’d like to know?” 

“Not if you talk as loud as that.” 

“Where am I, anyhow? An’ who the dickens ’re 
you? Guess you’re — you’re off yer base, eh?” 

The man was hopelessly intoxicated, so much was 
clear. The speech, tone, clumsiness, all could not be 
so perfectly feigned. 

Of so much Croly felt sure. But something in the 
hapless creature’s voice, caused him to linger. 
Where had he heard that voice before? Surely, at 
a time and place differing widely from this, if at all. 

The detective had his pocket-lantern with him, 
but he dared not use it then, for fear that watchful 
eyes might see the tiny rays of light, and curiosity 
be excited. 

While he was debating the question, the man 
leaned against his arm and began breathing heav- 
ily, indicating that he had again fallen into a 
drunken stupor or sleep. 

“I must leave him until I finish my investigations 
in this quarter,” he decided. 

He dragged the unconscious man to a more ob- 
scure corner, that he might be less likely to be dis- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


185 


turbed. Then he returned to the court, and for a mo- 
ment listened intently. 

All was quiet in the vicinity. A few lights gleamed 
dully from several windows; the tramp of many 
feet upon the sidewalk beyond was faintly audible. 
These were the only signs of life in the locality. 

Croly proceeded to fasten spurs upon the heels of 
his boots to assist him in climbing ; then, once more 
making sure that he was not under surveillance, he 
began ascending the telegraph pole. 

This was not the first time that he had performed 
a similar feat. To so practiced an athlete it was not 
at all difficult, nor in itself dangerous. 

He had nearly reached the projecting roof of the 
nearest building when he was thrilled by the sound 
of voices directly below. 

He instantly ceased climbing, and remained as 
motionless as though glued to the pole. 

It was now so dark in the court that not an object 
was visible. 

Still the voices sounded low, gruff, and distinct ; 
and straining every sense, the detective caught a 
single query and its response from the unseen per- 
sons. 

The first speaker asked : 

“Can you see where to strike ?” 

And the other replied : 

“Plainly enough.” 

Before the significance of the remark could other- 
wise fully present itself to the listening detective, it 
was impressed upon him in a most startling and un- 
expected manner. 

A slight, whirring sound, and then — thwack ! 

Something had struck the base of the telephone 
pole with terrific force. The blow was swiftly fol- 
lowed by another, and another, until the detective 
felt his support totter away, and then descend with 
terrific force. 


186 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

WHAT THE SPY DETECTIVE ACCOMPLISHED. 

Steve Lawton had been to too much trouble and 
risk in following Bill Leary, the ‘‘tough,”' to give up 
his game at the last without one more attempt. 

His pretended swoon had thrown the ruffian off 
his guard. Then the appearance of the policeman 
had put Leary to flight, and thus left the boy free. 

Had the latter paused to make a full explanation to 
the officer nothing could have been done. So he 
made no explanations at all. 

The young typo-detective’s desire was to discover 
the destination and errand of the man he was fol- 
lowing, and until that end was accomplished Steve 
would not settle down and simply let the police pro- 
tect him. 

“The city is real good to pay the cops wages to 
look after young chaps like me, and all that,” the 
youngster mentally observed, as he fled from the as- 
tonished officer. “But,” he added, “I ain’t goin’ to 
impose on their kindness while I’ve got such a lively 
pair of legs. It’s too awful mean. Hullo! there’s 
the chap I’m after now!” 

The boy had in truth once more come within sight 
of the ruffian. He was striding along at a furious 
pace, turning neither to the right nor left, and Steve 
followed at a safe distance, making sure that his foe 
should not obtain a glimpse of him. 

Both pursuer and pursued soon reached the Brook- 
lyn terminus of the bridge, and the latter made his 
way almost directly to, and entered a billiard saloon 
on Fulton street near Hicks. 

Steve reconnoitered the premises before venturing 
to enter. As he sauntered past, a young fellow, 
whose countenance was impressed by a premature 
knowledge of the world’s ways, came to the door to 
obtain a whiff of fresh air. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


187 


“You ’tend the tables inside?” Steve carelessly 
asked, confronting the youth. 

“When anybody’s playin’. Business’s quiet to- 
day, though,” the latter replied. 

He was smoking a very strong pipe, with a non- 
chalance that indicated that he had graduated from 
mild cigars a long while ago. 

“That feller that just went in — does he play 
much?” 

“Never saw him but once or twice. No, he don’t 
play.” 

“What’s he doing?” 

“Drinking whisky, I guess. That’s what I heard 
him call for.” 

“Pay for it?” 

“He’ll have to, or get bounced.” 

“Guess he’ll be bounced, then. Couldn’t pay toll 
on the Bridge little while ago.” 

“You know him?” 

“A little.” 

“Tough, isn’t he?” 

“Oh, I ain’t going to look out for you fellers if you 
can’t look out for yourselves. Only I didn’t s’pose 
you was quite so fresh.” 

With this ambiguous observation Steve made as 
though he would walk off, but the pool-tender’s cu- 
riosity was excited, and he detained the boy with a 
show of eagerness. 

“What do you know about that chap?” he de- 
manded. 

“Nothin’ much.” 

“See here, if he is playin’ any trick on us, and you 
know it, just blow on the racket, or we’ll make it go 
hard with you.” 

“Don’t try to be too smart, now, ’cause I don’t 
scare at a little smoke. And ’nother thing : you may 
take yer hand off o’ me, or you’ll catch somethin’ 
you won’t like.” 

The young typo said this with such a cool, though 
determined air, that the other changed his tactics 
very abruptly. 

“See here, just tell us all about it, and we’ll do 
what’s right by you,” he said, persuasively. 


188 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“I don’t ask no pay. But yer mustn’t try to drive 
me, ’cause I’m nonpareil double-leaded, when yer 
git me mad. I’ll tell yer one thing, don’t bounce 
the tough. I guess he came here to meet somebody, 
and I guess a fly-cop is spyin’ him. Mixed up in a 
crime of some sort. He ’bout broke my back once, 
when he had an ugly spell — that’s why I’m inter- 
ested, and if a fly-cop comes in to pull him, I want 
to be ’round and see the picnic.” 

4 'This is important, to be sure,” declared the other, 
adding: "I must go in and tell the boss.” 

4 'Wait a minute.” 

44 What do you want?” 

"Can’t you manage somehow to hide me inside 
where I can see what is going on without the 
tough’s seeing me. I’ll look out for myself, you 
needn’t have any fears on that score.” 

44 I’ll try it. Come in now.” 

"No ; come back and tell me if he is out of sight. 
He’d chew me up if he got his eyes on me and 
s’pected I was spyin’.” 

The young fellow entered the billiard and pool- 
room, and was absent several moments. When he 
returned his face glowed with eager interest. 

"The tough has got a partner, I guess,” he an- 
nounced, adding: 4 'There is another fellow here, 
rather odd-looking, who took the tough into a side 
room of ours that we keep for people that like a quiet 
game of cards and don’t want spectators. They are 
buzzing each other at a great rate. It was as you 
said about the tough having no money. The other 
fellow paid his bill.” 

Steve could scarce restrain his eagerness within 
proper bounds. 

"Other chap is a fly-cop instead of a partner,” he 
declared. Of coure he knew better, but he did not 
wish the pool-room proprietors to suspect that he 
was playing the detective part. 

"You’re a pretty sharp boy, I should say. Come 
in, and I’ll see that you have a chance to watch the 
detective and his game, if that is what they turn out 
to be.” 

Steve was conducted into the pool-room and up 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


189 


some stairs, terminating over the card-room in 
which Bill Leary and the stranger were closeted. 

The place in which he found himself was a nar- 
row, open space, stored with odds and ends from the 
saloon below. The small apartment underneath was 
visible through a circular register. At present this 
was closed, but Steve Lawton opened it so softly that 
the persons underneath were not aware of it. 

The pool-tender was obliged to return to his du- 
ties, several players having entered at the moment 
and begun a game. 

So the young typo-detective was left entirely to 
himself. 

The first words that came to his ears were uttered 
in the gruff tones of Bill Leary, who said : 

“I’ve got about through with this business. I want 
you to pay me off and let me go.” 

“Impossible — not yet,” replied a low, harsh voice, 
unmistakably disguised. 

“D’ye expect me to hang around here till I’m 
nabbed?” 

“I expect you to finish what you have begun. I 
will pay you all the money you need ; but I won’t 
dismiss you till your work is done.” 

“S’posen I say I’m goin’ to quit any way?” 

“Then you will change your decision, that is all. 
You must not think that you have me in your power 
and can wind me round your finger as you please. 
You are as deep in the mud as I am in the mire, and 
I’ve got one advantage that you have not — ready 
money. If you back down you will find yourself in 
an awful scrape. I can take care, of myself. Do 
you see the point?” 

“That’s why you’re keeping me short of money, 
is it?” 

“That is one reason. Another is, that I wish you 
to keep sober. To speak plainly, your head isn’t 
level enough to stand much whisky.” 

Leary growled out an incoherent response, and 
then relapsed into silence. 

Steve Lawton, it is needless to say, was intensely 
interested in this interview, which certainly indi- 


190 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


cated that criminal relations existed between the 
ruffian and his unknown companion. 

Steve could only obtain an indistinct glimpse of 
the two men. The stranger was very cleverly dis- 
guised. Yet the boy was impressed by a certain 
familiarity in gesture and speech that convinced 
him that he had seen this person before. 

“Who the duse is it?” the lad asked himself. 
“Not George Dyer — too stout. But that may be 
bogus. He's well made up, anyhow. Who can he 
be? I'm blessed if I can guess.” 

At that moment the stranger spoke again. 

“You have agreed to see this thing through for 
five hundred dollars. Now I’m willing to double 
that figure if you will push it through without loss 
of time. What do you say?” 

“A thousand!” exclaimed Leary, springing to his 
feet. 

“I've said it Now, speak up.” 

“What more do you want of me?” 

“I want you to make sure of one of two things. 
Either go to work and prove Carl Brandon guilty, so 
that the detective will look no further; else that 
Hindoo detective and Croly, his rival, who are more 
to be feared than fifty others, must be effectually 
disposed of.” 

“Expect me to murder them two chaps for a thou- 
sand Guess not. Careless business trying to beat 
them. Cost you more'n that. A little rap with a 
slung-shot or a thirty-two cartridge don't drop that 
sort of game. I can fetch 'em, like enough, but it'll 
cost ye a big price.” 

The stranger was silent a moment, and then said: 

“Name your price.” 

“Five thousan’ and costs.” 

“Too high.” 

“Then find 'nother man, and pay me off.” 

“No, you must do it. You can command a score 
of desperate assistants, and you shall have your 
price. What is your verdict?” 

“It's a go.” 

“Then be about it.” 

“Not so fast; I want your help, with Croly at 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


191 


least. You must decoy him, as I shall direct. He 
is a regular lion, and you have to handle him careful. 
I’ll tell you how we’ll manage him.” 

Leary proceeded to lay before the other an elabo- 
rate scheme, every word of which was distinctly 
overheard by the boy detective. 

In the conversation that ensued the twain used a 
more cautious tone. Once, however, the stranger, 
becoming unusually excited, sprang erect and spoke 
up in a sharp, clear tone. 

The effect upon Steve Lawton was magical. 

He rose to his feet, his young face pale with the 
intensity of his agitation, and without waiting to 
hear more, he stole softly down the stairs and has- 
tened out upon the street. 

Reaching the open air, he quickly crossed the 
street, walked down Fulton street, turned the corner 
of Front, and, when out of sight of the billiard-room, 
paused to collect his excited thoughts. 

“That voice!” he exclaimed, half aloud. “By gin- 
ger ! I know him now — I know him ! And he is the 
one that shot Mr. Waldron, or else — but I can’t 
figure it all out in a minute. I guess I’ll have to let 
Croly do the figuring. But I’ve got the idea any- 
how, and if it don’t clear up this awful affair, then 
I don’t know a Hoe cylinder from a type-writer. To 
think that I should hit upon this piece of evidence ! 
And that ain’t all — it clears up that other business 
that I overheard in the printin’-house t’other night. 
This — but hold on. Am I goin’ to stand here like a 
Quaker and let ’em slaughter Mr. Croly and the 
Hindoo detective? I guess not.” 

And away the youngster ran, almost wild with the 
weight of responsibility pressing upon him. 

He thought of laying the whole case before the 
police ; but Croly had charged him not to do that. 
A dozen plans struggled in his brain, and nightfall 
found him hastening toward Corlear’s Hook. 

Straight toward this most dangerous locality he 
went, alone and upon an errand of greatest moment. 

Before he had reached his destination he became 
conscious of a startling fact. 

A man was following him, so swiftly and silently 


192 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


that he realized there was no escaping an encounter 
with him. Hence, with compressed lips and deter- 
mined countenance, he paused and waited for his 
pursuer to overtake him. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE HINDOO GAINS A POINT. 

Stella Brandon, startled by the expression of hor- 
ror upon the face of George Dyer, turned quickly to 
see what he beheld to agitate him so intensely. 

Her own dismay was scarcely less than his when 
she saw the tall figure of the Hindoo detective stand- 
ing in the door-way of the hut. 

She would have fled if there had been a possibility 
of doing so. But there was not. Hyjah blocked the 
only means of egress from the hut, and to elude him 
was out of the question. 

He took a step forward, and spoke in a kindly 
tone : 

‘ 'You look at me as though I were some monster 
that you expected would devour you!” he remarked, 
a slight smile curling his firm lips. 

Stella was first to find voice to respond. There was 
no use of attempting to escape ; and something in 
the great detective’s face and speech reassured her 
rather than increased her apprehensions. 

“What do you wish, sir?” she asked, in a firm 
tone. 

“I wish to do you no harm. I would protect you 
if you would accept my protection,” was the reply. 

“We do not need protection, sir.” 

“You did need it a short time ago.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“When you were coming up from the railway 
station, and that ruffian attacked you.” 

“Then it was you who came to our assistance?” 

“I chanced to be at hand, and I gave the fellow a 
sound lesson. Then I came on to see that you fell 
into no more serious trouble.” 

“Did you allow the ruffian to go?” 

“Yes, after chastising him. It suited my purpose 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


193 


better to do so. Now I find I am in time to save you 
from further annoyance and imposition. ” 

The dark eyes of Hyjah rested upon the face of 
George Dyer as he said this, and the young man’s 
glance fell, while he shrank away from the detec- 
tive as though in mortal terror. 

The Hindoo detective continued : 

“This brave young man loves you so well/ Miss 
Brandon, that he is willing to inflict the deepest an- 
guish upon you in the hope of winning your affection 
in return. A very brave young man ! Shall I allow 
him to proceed with the infamous falsehood which 
he had just begun pouring into your ears? Or shall 
I treat him as he deserves?” 

George Dyer trembled violently as he listened to 
the sharp denunciation of the detective. But his 
face flushed with anger and he stepped threaten- 
ingly toward the Hindoo. 

“Have a care what you say, sir!” he exclaimed, 
his voice husky with rage. 

Hyjah did not stir. But he quietly retorted: 

“It would be well, young man, if you were a little 
more cautious. It may be to your advantage not to 
be too crusty with me. I charge you with falsehood 
and cowardice. Do you deny the justice of the 
charge?” 

“I certainly deny it.” 

“Were you telling this young lady the truth just 
now?” 

“I should have done so had you not interrupted.” 

“No, you would not. You had begun with a lie, 
and others were on your lips. So don’t repeat them 
to me, for I shall not submit. You know that Carl 
Brandon did not shoot Mr. Waldron, or instigate the 
crime, or even have any knowledge of it beyond 
that which he may suspect. You know who com- 
mitted the crime. You are willfully concealing it, 
and are, therefore, in the sight of the law, a partner 
in guilt. Therefore I am going to take you in 
charge.” 

“No, no ! Mercy!” gasped the young foreman, re- 
coiling in dismay. 

“Oh, yes. Although I am not going to arrest you. 


194 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


I must take you in charge — place you where you 
can be found when you are needed. I don’t expect 
you to confess to me at present, for you have a 
powerful motive for concealing the crime, else you 
would not have fled. But you must yield to my con- 
trol. I will take good care of you — won’t even let 
the other detectives get hold of you. What do you 
say?” 

“I shall not yield.” 

“Is that your decision?” 

“It is.” 

“Let us see.” 

Hyjah strode forward with outstretched hands. 
The young man whipped out a revolver and quickly 
raised it. But, quick as was the movement, he was 
too late. The weapon was sent spinning from his 
hands ; he received a sharp rap upon the cheek that 
caused him to stagger against the side of the hut; 
and almost at the same instant he was caught by the 
shoulder, whirled violently around, thrown upon his 
back, and his wrists were confined with handcuffs. 

Thus, within the period of twenty seconds, he was 
reduced from a condition of bold defiance to one of 
helpless captivity. 

“I never endure anything of that sort from so 
young a man,” Hyjah quietly declared, standing 
over his conquered adversary. 

He turned to Stella and her warm-hearted compan- 
ion, and continued : 

“You had lost your way, it appears?” 

“It was my blunder, to be sure,” said Katie 
Byrnes, ready to take the blame. 

“You were going to the house of a friend up in the 
village?” the detective pursued. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Allow me to show you the way. It is not safe for 
you to remain here unprotected.’ 

Stella hesitated. She thought of her father, whom 
she believed to be hiding not far away. And she 
thought, too, of the warning which she had received 
not to trust the detectives. 

Yet she could not wholly distrust this kind, strong 
man ; and at the same time her mind reverted to 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


195 


another detective who had befriended her once, and 
promised to stand by her at all times. Could it be 
that Croly, that handsome, brave, kind- voiced man, 
would prove treacherous. 

Hyjah, watching her countenance, seemed to read 
her thoughts ; for, before she could respond to his 
inquiry, he said : 

“If you have fled from the city for your father’s 
protection, you have made a mistake. The best 
thing you can do is to return at once. Carl Brandon 
has gone back to his old haunts, and is in as great 
danger as ever.” 

, “Has he returned? Do not deceive me, sir!” Stella 
exclaimed, all her solicitude for her father’s safety 
aroused. 

“I would not deceive you, my poor girl. Ik is my 
mission in life to aid, not inflict pain upon fihe unfor- 
tunate.” 

“I believe you, sir. I will not distrust you. And 
I wish you would tell me if Mr. Croly, that cool, 
handsome detective, is also trustworthy?” 

“Mr. Croly is a gentleman, and, although we are 
rivals upon this case, I can speak of him only in the 
highest terms. He would stand by you as faithfully 
as a brother could do.” 

The vagabond’s daughter covered her face with 
her hands, and for several moments did not speak 
or move. As she stood thus a soft hand touched her 
cheek, and the sweet voice of Katie Byrnes said, 
close to her ear : 

“I believe we made a big mistake in running away 
from Mr. Croly and the Hindoo detective. They both 
seem to be kind men. Let’s trust them, and if they’re 
mean enough to betray us to our enemies, I believe 
they will be punished some day as they deserve.” 

Stella quickly lifted her face, and impulsively ex- 
claimed: 

“Yes, we will go with you. Take us back to the 
city, and advise us what to do.” 

“You shall not regret your decision,” Hyjah 
quietly declared, and he led the way forth from the 
hut, in which they had so strangely met, leading his 
prisoner by the arm. 


196 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


They returned to the village railway-station, and 
were in time for an early train back to the city. 

Stella and Katie proceeded first to the home of the 
latter. Hyjah took Dyer to a hiding-place where 
he could keep him in safety until such time as his 
testimony would be required. 

There were many officers on the young man’s 
track, and Dyer was glad to be under the protec- 
tion of the Hindoo, at whose hands he would receive 
more lenient treatment than he would otherwise 
have done. 

Hence he remained almost voluntarily in the place 
of refuge provided for him by the detective ; and it 
was in this place that Hyjah showed him to Croly, 
greatly to the latter’s amazement. 

The Hindoo detective promised to return to Stella 
in the evening, and, if possible, inform her of the 
present whereabouts of her father. But evening 
came, and Hyjah did not appear. 

As the hour grew late and the detective did not 
fulfill his promise, Stella became more and more 
ctlctrinod 

“He has either fallen into difficulty or has proved 
treacherous,” the poor girl said to her faithful 
friend. 

“I don’t believe he would break his word if he 
could help it,” was the warm response, for Katie’s 
confidence in the Hindoo was as strong as it was 
sudden. 

“Then I fear my father is in trouble. I cannot 
bear the suspense longer. I must go to the places 
which he frequents, as I have done many times be- 
fore, and do what I can for his safety. Are you 
afraid to go with me, Katie?” 

“Sure, and I’m not afraid where you dare go.” 

“Then let us hasten.” 

The twain went out upon the street, and in a short 
time reached the vicinity of a saloon which Carl 
Brandon, while under the influence of liquor, often 
visited. 

The place itself was of a better class than most of 
those in that locality. The proprietor was a sallow- 
faced man, who, for a wonder, was perfectly tern- 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


197 


perate himself, and possessed many kindly charac- 
teristics. 

There was a side entrance to the place with which 
Stella was familiar, and the brave girl made her 
way directly to it. As it chanced, she met the pro- 
prietor face to face just within this door. 

“My father, Mr. Ridley — is he here?” she ques- 
tioned. 

“He has just gone,” was the reply. And in re- 
sponse to the mute appeal of her countenance, he 
kindly added: “He was not very badly off, though 
not quite sober. But I think he can take care of him- 
self. He said he was going to Blankley’s. I wouldn’t 
fret about him, Stella.” 

She did not wait to hear his last remark. 

“Come, we must find him,” she said to her com- 
panion, and they hastened along the dingy streets, 
coming at last to a locality which they knew to be 
one of the most lawless in the city. As they neared 
a certain point they heard a shout from the opposite 
side of the street, and saw a man running as though 
for his life. “It is my father!” Stella gasped. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

SURROUNDED. 

Down came the telephone pole with a crash in the 
obscure court — a crash that awakened momentary 
curiosity in the few who heard it, perhaps, but not 
sufficient to impel them to investigate. The two 
ruffians, one of whom held the ax with which he had 
chopped down the pole, rushed toward the other end 
of it, expecting to find the man who had climbed to 
its summit mangled and dead on the flagstones. 

One of the men flashed a ray of light from a lan- 
tern upon the scene. There lay the pole, with broken 
insulators and a fragment of wire. But this was all. 
No mangled body ; no sign of the one they sought to 
destroy, either living or dead. 

“We have missed him after all,” whispered the 
man with the ax. 


198 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


“It can’t be. He must be here, somewhere. Come 
this way,” said the other, in a subdued tone. 

But a thorough search of the place met with the 
same result. 

Croly, the detective, whom they had sought to 
kill, had escaped. 

Let us see how it happened. 

The instant that he felt sure the telephone pole 
was falling, he flung himself forward with all the 
power and agility he possessed. He was barely able 
to seize the edge of the jutting roof ; and to this he 
clung, while the pole fell with a clatter to the 
ground. 

For a minute he hung suspended, his body swing- 
ing like a pendulum over the abyss. He. could hear 
the whispered exclamations of his enemies; he saw 
the light from the lantern flashing upon the dingy 
buildings, and reflected for an instant from the ax 
carried by one of the ruffians. 

He paused to see no more. There was no time to 
be lost if he hoped to succeed in his purpose. He 
realized that his enemies were combining forces 
against him, and that he must be doubly alert and 
resolute if he was to overcome them. 

An agile spring, and he was upon the jutting roof, 
and beyond any possible ray from his enemies’ 
lantern." And, without stopping to see what they 
would do next, he found his way to a skylight, which 
was open. He did not hesitate to drop down through 
the opening. 

The room in which he found himself was small 
and dark, save for a dim light that came in through 
a transom. 

Passing out into a narrow passage, he was brought 
to a halt by the sound of footsteps. 

They came from a room near at hand. He went 
to the door, and prepared to listen, when the knob 
turned with a jerk, and the door was opened so sud- 
denly that it struck against the detective’s arm be- 
fore he could withdraw. 

It was a dwarfish figure that crossed the threshold 
and confronted Croly — the figure of the shrewd, 
malicious being known as Spider. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


199 


The latter uttered a startled cry, recoiled, and at- 
tempted to close the door again. But a firmly 
planted foot prevented, and a strong hand seized the 
door, and flung it back with a force that hurled Spi- 
der almost into the detective’s arms. 

Before the terrified dwarf could recover himself he 
was held firmly by the throat — so firmly that he 
seemed threatened with instant strangulation. 

“Don’t kill me! Mercy!” gasped the wretch. 

Even as the words passed his lips Spider found 
himself hurled to the floor, while a pair of hand- 
cuffs were snapped upon his wrists. 

Then he was jerked to his feet again, and for the 
first time the detective spoke. 

“This time I am going to make sure of you, and I 
will not lose any time about it either. I will give 
you just one minute in which to produce the articles 
which you took from my room to-day. At the end 
of that minute, unless you place the things in my 
hand, I’ll trot you around to the police headquar- 
ters, and have you held for murder. That’s what I 
will do.” 

Spider trembled like an aspen, his face growing 
pale as ashes. 

“I — I ain’t murdered nobody,” he began, but was 
sharply interrupted with : 

“Time! One minute, remember.” 

And Croly produced his watch, and fixed his gaze 
upon its face. 

“Wait, wait — I can’t get them so quick,” chattered 
the dwarf. 

“Yes, you can, for they’re right in this room, as 
you know. Start your boots — I mean business.” 

Spider dared not put the detective off with further 
pretext. 

So he hastily entered the room from which he had 
just emerged, closely followed by Croly. He opened 
a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau — the drawer 
was not locked, and he managed it in spite of the 
manacles upon his wrists — and took therefrom a 
square pasteboard box. 

“Here’s the things, mister, just as I found them,” 
he declared, as Croly took the box from his hands. 


200 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


The detective glanced into the box, saw that 
everything was as he had left it, and then thrust it 
into an inner pocket. 

Then he turned to the dwarf, and said, in a voice 
full of terrible sternness : 

‘'Now you must tell me all you know about the 
murder of Hiram Waldron. All, remember. ” 

“I know nothing about it, sir.” 

“Perhaps not. But you know who hired you to 
steal these clews from me.” 

“The man was disguised, so I didn’t know who he 
was.” 

“Was he short or tall?” 

“Rather tall.” 

“How much did he pay you?” 

“A heap of money.” 

“How much?” 

“Twenty-five dollars.” 

“What did he say he wished you to steal from 
me?” 

“The thumb-prints that you had— one in blood and 
two others in wax.” 

“How did he know I had them?” 

“Somebody saw them, and told him.” 

“You told him, didn’t you? You were the spy. 
Now, own up.” 

“I was, mister. Oh, I’m pretty sharp.” 

“Did he tell you to decoy me to the house where I 
was attacked by that overgrown coward?” 

“He did.” 

“Can you tell me anything more about this affair?” 

“I can’t, sir.” 

“Then I’ll leave you, for I have plenty to do. But 
first I will make sure that you do not spy upon me 
any more for an hour or two.” 

The detective proceeded, in spite of the dwarf’s 
appeals for mercy, to gag him, and bind his ankles 
together, and then lock him into the small room. 

Without further ado, Croly made his way cau- 
tiously from the building. 

Reaching the dark court where he had come so 
near meeting his death, he paused to listen intently 
before going farther. 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


201 


The space seemed wholly deserted. 

Then he bethought himself of the intoxicated 
stranger whom he had taken so much pains to place 
in a safe retreat. 

He groped his way to the spot, and in another mo- 
ment had found the unfortunate wretch just as he 
had left him. 

To arouse the stranger from his stupor was no easy 
matter, but he at length succeeded in doing so, and 
the man, sitting erect, exclaimed, in his drawling 
accents : 

“How — how are ye? Time to get up, eh?” 

tf6 It is time for you to reform, my man,” Croly re- 
turned, adding: “Let me have a look at you:” 

As he spoke he produced his tiny pocket-lantern 
and turned its rays upon the face and figure of the 
inebriate. 

A low ejaculation of amazement broke from his 
lips. The man before him was young and hand- 
some. There was refinement impressed upon the 
delicate lines of his face. But his clothes were coarse 
and in tatters, to say nothing of the filth which had 
accumulated upon them. 

“Clarence Blain — and in rags!” Croly exclaimed. 

The tone and words of the detective seemed to 
partially arouse the young man from his befogged 
condition. At the same time he recognized Croly ; 
and with a glance at his own ragged attire he stag- 
gered to his feet. 

“By Jupiter!” he exclaimed. Then, after a be- 
wildered pause, “Where am I?” 

“In Kepley’s Court, near Corlear’s Hook.” 

“I should say I was. Where’s my clothes? I 
didn’t have these rags on when — when — but I don’t 
know when. What time is it?” 

“Eleven o’clock.” 

“Why have you hold of me? You’re Croly, the de- 
tective.” 

“I found you lying in the filth of this alley, and I 
am trying to take care of you. Did you have on bet- 
ter clothes earlier to-day? These are pretty coarse, 
aside from the tatters.” 

“Course I had on better ones. Guess I'd give my 


202 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


tailor a picnic if he rigged me up in this style, by 
Jupiter!” 

Clarence passed his hand over his eyes, and then, 
in a graver tone, continued : 

"I must have been pretty badly off. They have not 
only robbed me of my money and watch, but they 
even exchanged clothes with me. Heavens, who had 
these things on last? What shall I do?” 

“Go home and clean up. But for me you might 
have been killed. Stay ; what do you recollect last 
before you lost consciousness? Where were you?” 

“In Colville’s wine shop, I believe.” 

“Who was with you?" 

“A young chap I picked up— a jolly fellow with 
eye-glasses and plenty of money. He got me drunk, 
and— good heaven ! Did I dream it? Or did he ask 
me some questions about — about ” 

“The Waldron murder, eh?” Croly questioned, 
concealing his eagerness. 

“It seems as though he did. I didn’t mean to get 
full — I didn t dare to. But he was a mighty persua- 
sive chap. Did he question me, or did I dream it 
all?” 

“Probably he questioned you, as you fear. That 
jolly fellow with eye-glasses was a detective— one of 
the score at work upon this case. The best thing that 
you can do is to tell me all that you think you told 
him. You cannot cover a crime forever. Be a man, 
and tell all.” 

“Ho, no.” The young man glanced nervously 
about him, and rapidly added : “Take me out of this 
place — set me right again. I will pay you well for 
this favor. You are a gentleman, Mr. Croly— I’ll say 
that for you.” 

The detective realized that, in his weak state, 
Clarence Blain could doubtless be compelled to dis- 
close the message which George Dyer had given him 
to take to his father. But Croly, with all his zeal, 
preferred not to resort to such means. 

To force an intoxicated man to criminate another 
looked too much like treachery, and Croly was the 
soul of honor. 

“Gome, and I will take you home,” the detective 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


203 


said, so kindly that the young man, in his weakness, 
seized his arm, and clung to it in child-like confi- 
dence. 

“Take me home/’ he repeated, in tremulous tones. 
And arm in arm they started to leave the place. 

But they had not taken three steps before they 
heard the rapid tramp of heavy feet in their rear, 
and Croly, on the alert for danger, turned quickly, 
and found that they were literally surrounded by 
ruffians. 

Clubs and knives were brandished on all sides, 
and a hoarse voice exclaimed : 

“Drop him! make sure of him ! Now is your time !” 

The agile detective for once in his life, found him- 
self in a situation from which his own agility, 
strength, or wit could not extricate him. 

He struck out right and left. But the next instant 
his arms were clutched from behind, and furious 
blows rained upon his head and shoulders. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“under his thumb.” 

Croly was not to be easily overpowered, even by 
fearful odds. Two of his assailants went down under 
his vigorous blows, before their attack had begun to 
tell upon him. But when he was seized by a half 
dozen strong hands he could only writhe and kick 
under the fierce blows rained upon him. 

In that moment he felt that fate was against him 
— that with all his skill and prowess he was now to 
be overpowered and killed by a pack of brutal ruf- 
fians hired to do the work. 

Clarence Blain, although making a feeble show of 
defending the detective, was quickly thrust aside, 
and Croly was alone with his foes. 

A struggle like this could not long be maintained. 

The detective grew dizzy and faint under the at- 
tack ; he felt that he was falling — that he could re- 
sist no longer. 

But at that moment he heard a shout from some 


204 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


person near. At the same time the hand which held 
him let go, and he realized that he once more had 
the power of defending himself. 

Regaining his feet, he saw another figure in the 
midst of the fray — a man who seemed to recklessly 
attack the entire crowd of ruffians, heedless of their 
blows in return. 

A light flared from a near window at the moment, 
and caused the scene to appear with startling dis- 
tinctness. And in this light the face of Croly’s de- 
fender was revealed— and it was the face of Carl 
Brandon, the vagabond. 

In that moment Croly realized that he owed his 
life to this man; for only the outcast’s fierce on- 
slaught diverted the attack of the ruffians from the 
detective to himself. 

But the combat was not yet ended. The court 
seemed literally to swarm with men. And the res- 
pite given Croly was only of brief duration. 

He was again assailed upon all sides. In the semi- 
darkness he dared not use a revolver for fear of hit- 
ting Brandon or Clarence Blain. 

He once more found himself being overpowered, 
when he was again electrified by a shout. 

This time the cry was in a boy’s voice, and a fa- 
miliar one at that. This was not all ; he under- 
stood the youngster’s words, shouted at the top of 
his voice. 

“Here we come, nonpariel double-leaded wid a box 
of quads throwed in,” was the lad’s announcement, 
and with all the heedlessness of youth he rushed into 
the midst of the fray. His temerity was rewarded 
by a blow that sent him to the ground half stunned, 
and temporarily silenced. 

But there were others with him who did not go 
down so easily. A half dozen policemen, whom 
Steve had secured at the nearest station, dashed in 
among the “toughs” with their clubs; and within a 
less period than is required by us to chronicle the 
fact, the combat was ended, with three ruffians 
lying bruised and bleeding upon the flagstones, and 
five more sullen and helpless with manacled wrists. 
Among the latter was a tall, slouching ruffian with 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


205 


small, bleary eyes, and a scar on his left cheek, long 
hair and black, bristling beard. Bill Leary, the 
“tough.” 

“What shall we do with them, Mr. Croly?” asked 
one of the policemen, when the detective had re- 
covered sufficiently to give an account of the affray. 

“Lock them up on a charge of assault with intent 
to kill,” was the grim reply. 

At the same time the detective stepped up to Bill 
Leary and sternly said : 

“Hold out our hand.” 

“What for?” the man growled. 

“Because I tell you to.” 

“I guess I won’t.” 

But his refusal was without avail. Croly seized the 
ruffian’s right hand, held it tightly for a moment, 
and then released it. The policemen looked on in 
astonishment. Leary was as bewildered as they. 
Nor did Croly vouchsafe an explanation to any of 
them at the time. 

Steve Lawton had recovered from the blow which 
he had received, and stood beside the detective. His 
keen eyes had seen what the latter had done, and 
understood his purpose. Croly had another wax im- 
pression, this time of the thumb upon Bill Leary’s 
right hand. 

The policemen hastened away with their pris- 
oners, leaving only Croly, Steve, and Clarence Blain 
in the court. Carl Brandon, the vagabond, had dis- 
appeared. 

“I wish he had stayed, for I would like to show 
him that I appreciate his efforts in my behalf. A 
strange man, surely. Once I thought he tried to kill 
me ; now he has saved my life, at risk of his own.” 

Croly said this as they went from the court. For 
Steve he had words of warmest praise also — praise 
that caused the boy’s heart to swell with pride. 

“I like to be talked to that way better ’n bein’ 
knocked ’round and cuffed as I used to be on the 
street,” was the youngster’s mental comment. 

At the street corner they separated, Clarence Blain 
being now sufficiently sober to make his way home 
alone. Croly instructed Steve to come to his private 


206 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


apartments in good season the next morning ; then 
the boy detective went to his own lodgings. Croly 
had scarcely left his boy assistant out of sight, when 
he was once more startled by cries and the sound uf 
hurrying feet from a point near at hand. 

Hastening to the spot, he saw two policemen 
clinging to a prisoner, while near them stood two 
girls, one of whom threatened the officers with a 
leveled revolver. 

He recognized each member of the group upon 
the instant. The prisoner was Carl Brandon ; the 
one defending him Stella ; and her companion, Katie 
Byrnes, the faithful Irish girl. 

Croly stepped into their midst, and sternly de- 
manded : 

“ What is the meaning of this?” 

“We have got the murderer of Hiram Waldron, 
that is all. Ahead of you scientific detectives, you 
see,” replied one of the policemen. 

“He is innocent ! You shall not take him away !” 
cried Stella, her dark eyes flashing with resolute 
zeal. 

Croly turned to the officer, and in a low, quiet 
tone said : 

“Release this man. He just saved my life, as I can 
easily prove. He is no more a murderer than I am. 
Let him go, and I will be responsible for his appear- 
ance should he be needed. And to-morrow I will let 
you pull in the real culprit.” 

The policemen knew Croly too well to doubt his 
statement. They thought he might be misled by 
wild-cat clews ; but they were aware that he was a 
man of his word. 

“If you will be responsible we’ll take our chances, 
that is all. We have orders to give in to the detec- 
tives every time, so I suppose we have got to do so,” 
said the policeman. 

After some parleying the officer released Brandon 
and walked away. 

“This is no time for thanks,” said Croly, as both 
the vagabond and his daughter seized his hand and 
began to pour out their gratitude. And the detec- 
tive added, in his gentlest tone : “I owe this man 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


207 


more than he owes me, for he saved my life. He 
would not be convicted had he been tried for the 
crime with which he is suspected, because he is in- 
nocent, and we detectives do not allow innocent men 
to suffer for the guilt of others. Another time we 
will talk the matter over. But to-night I wish you 
all to go to your homes and await to-morrow’s de- 
velopments.” 

For a few moments they lingered, eagerly discuss- 
ing the exciting events of the past hour. For it was 
thus that the incidents culminated with which Stella, 
her companion, and Steve Lawton were concerned 
when we left them at the close of chapters twenty- 
six and seven. Then they separated, Stella to think 
and dream of the cool, handsome detective, and 
Croly to make a final test of his clew — that strange 
clew in which no one but himself possessed any con- 
fidence. 

The test was made ; and one of the impressions in 
wax was identical in every line with the thumb-print 
in blood. The others differed. The test was care- 
ful and elaborate. Now all that remained was to 
prove that the clew implicated the guilty man. 

It was a little after nine o’clock of the next morn- 
ing when Croly sauntered up to the elegant residence 
of Mr. Blain. The latter had gone to the counting- 
room, and Croly, in no apparent haste, followed him 
thither. He was in his private office, and, pushing 
the office-boy aside, Croly made his way to that 
room which he had visited several times before. 

He flung open the door; was confronted by Julian 
Blain, and the latter, with a show of anger, de- 
manded : 

“Did the office-boy tell you I was here?” 

“No; I discovered your presence in another way,” 
was the calm reply. 

The detective closed the door, and quietly placed 
his back against it. Then he continued : 

“I bring important news, and I thought you would 
waive formalities in your natural interest.” 

“What news?” Biain asked, sinking back upon 
his chair. 

“I have solved the mystery of the printing-house 


208 


UNDER HIS THUMB, 


murder. I know who shot your partner. I know 
bevond the shadow of a doubt. 5 ' 

The other sprang to his feet, his face deathly 
white, his limbs trembling under his weight. 

“You— you are not sure?” he huskily asked. 

“Perfectly sure.” 

“Is it — is it Brandon?” 

“No, it is not Brandon.” 

“Dyer, then — the foreman.” 

“Nor Dyer, the foreman. The one who fired the 
shot is safely lodged by the police. But he is not 
the one who is alone responsible. He is a mere tool, 
like the weapon that he used. His name is Bill 
Leary, and he is known as ‘ihe tough . 7 I went down 
to see him this morning, and showed him how I had 
got his case down fine, and he told me the rest — just 
what I suspected before. Oh, I wouldn't draw any 
pistols, if I were in your place. Better wait and hire 
somebody else to do the shooting. But you must go 
with me, all the same, and answer to the charge of 
causing the murder of your partner, Hiram Wal- 
dron.” 

Croly sprang forward as he ceased speaking, and 
caught the upraised weapon in time to prevent its 
being discharged. 

At the same time the door again opened, and two 
policemen entered, followed almost immediately by 
Hyjah, the Hindoo detective. 

The latter stepped up to Croly, and said, in a low, 
earnest tone : 

“You have won, and I congratulate you. I was on 
my way hither upon the same errand that brought 
you, when I saw you enter, and foresaw your pur- 
pose. We both solved the mystery, but you were a 
few minutes ahead of me. I probed the business 
affairs of Julian Blain, and found that he had been 
swamping the firm through private speculations, 
and that Mr. Waldron, upon the night before the 
tragedy, had discovered the condition of affairs. 
Blain has cheated, lied, and embezzled. Threatened 
with exposure, in a whirl of desperation he gave Bill 
Leary a large sum of money to commit the crime. 
Blain was in the front part of the counting-room 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


209 


when the shot was fired, and escaped by throwing 
the window open and jumping out. The assassin 
immediately followed — and I presume it was his 
thumb, wet with his victim’s blood, that left the 
clew which you have so successfully worked out. 
Leary entered the next building, in which a window 
was also open, as you remember. George Dyer was 
an unseen witness of the crime, and this morning 
he made a full confession to me. It was he who 
shouted, ‘Waldron has killed himself.’ He did so 
upon an impulse to shield his employer. And later, 
he dared not reveal what he knew, because, being a 
confidant of Blain’s fraudulent speculations, he had 
accepted bribes, and was in danger of being impli- 
cated as an accomplice all through. Dyer escaped 
by a secret passage under the printing-house ; and I 
discovered this passage, and drove him to seek 
refuge elsewhere.” 

Hyjah made these statements rapidly and in a 
low tone, while the officers and a physican resusci- 
tated Blain, who had fallen, apparently, in a fit 
upon realizing that there was no escape. 

Another great New York criminal mystery solved, 
and the culprit brought to jusice. For Julian Blain, 
despite the vigilance of his guards, succeeded in 
putting an end to his own life before the case came 
to trial. Of Bill Leary’s fate we will not speak, be- 
cause it is our province to entertain, not to shock, 
the reader. 

“Spider” was not caught, and he is still at large, 
although the little wretch deserves severe punish- 
ment if any one ever did. George Dyer had no 
specific charge made against him, and so got off by 
merely being branded as a coward. 

Hyjah, the Hindoo, had been beaten, in time if 
not in skill. The rivalry had been warm, the result 
strangely close. But more friendly or generous ri- 
vals than these two great detectives never lived. 
Both were brave, skillful, and honorable ; yet they 
were as unlike in their methods as two members 
of the same great calling well could be. 


210 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


Clarence Blain, sobered by the terrible tragedy 
which made him the son of a murderer and suicide, 
has changed his habits — has become, in fact, a staid, 
honorable gentleman. He took up the wreck of his 
father’s business and worked it up to prosperity 
again ; and two or three years later he took Carl 
Brandon into partnership. The vagabond was a 
vagabond no longer, he having promptly reformed 
after the revelation of the mystery regarding the 
terrible crime in which he came so near being impli- 
cated. His beautiful daughter’s influence ; and, per- 
haps, more than these influences, the sustaining 
friendship and watchfulness of Croly, the* detective, 
brought him up from the abyss, and he is in a meas- 
ure fulfilling the promise of his younger manhood. 
As manager of the printing-house none could be 
more skillful than he. Brandon & Blain is the title 
by which the firm is now styled. 

Carl Brandon, a year later, made his home with 
his daughter and her husband ; for — queer that we 
have not hinted it before — Stella, the brave, beauti- 
ful child of the dissipated outcast, became what she 
was just fitted to be — the wife of the detective. Mrs. 
Croly is her name. Her admiration for his skill and 
bravery had resulted as such things usually do. 

Steve Lawton came in for a share of glory in the 
solution of the case, for, in the interview between 
Leary and the disguised person, which he overheard, 
as stated in chapter twenty-six, he had recognized 
the voice of the unknown as that of Julian Blain. 
Thus, although he would not have known how to 
work out the case alone, he really solved the mys- 
tery to his own satisfaction unaided. 

The boy returned to work in the printing-house, 
and thoroughly learned the trade like a sensible lad. 
But he was afterward frequently called upon to as- 
sist Croly upon difficult cases, and always sustained 
the reputation which he had gained so" early in his 
career. 

Only one point remains unexplained, and that was 
brought out in the trial of Bill Leary. 

Stella Brandon’s pistol, which was the weapon 


UNDER HIS THUMB. 


211 


used in the crime, was stolen from a police-station 
by Spider. It will be remembered that a policeman 
took it from Carl Brandon, previous to the tragedy, 
and that he had not seen it afterward. 

Spider had long been in the employ of Julian 
Blain, and his peculiar skill enabled the latter to se- 
cure this weapon which would throw suspicion upon 
the vagabond. 


[the end.] 


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No. 10— THE POST-OFFICE DETECTIVE, by Geo.,W. Goode. 
So. 9— OLD MORTALITY, by Young Baxter. 

So. 8— LITTLE LIGHTNING, by Police Captain James. 

No. 7— THE CHOSEN MAN, by “Old Sleuth.” 

No. 6-OLD STONEWALL, by “Old Sleuth.” 

No. 5— THE MASKED DETECTIVE, by “Old Sleuth.” 

No 4— THE TWIN DETECTIVES, by K. F. HiU. 

So. 3— VAN, THE GOVERNMENT DETECTIVE, by “Old Sleuth.” 
So. 2— BRUCE ANGELO, by “Old Sleuth.” 

So. l— BRANT ADAMS, by “Old Sleuth.” 

3?rice, 25 Gents Each. 

For sale by all Newsdealers, or will be sent by mail on receipt of 
price by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, Hew York. 


LIBRARY. 


THE LOG CABIN 

Issued. Every Tliursdav- 


PRICE, 10 CENTS EACH. 


No. 1.— THE WHITE CAPS, by Marline Manly. 

No. 2. -THE KEWANEE BANK ROBBERY, by J. R. Musick. 

No. 3.— SEVEN PICKED MEN, by Judson R. Taylor. 

No. 4.— JESSE, THE OUTJLAW, a story of the James Boys, by Captain 

Jake Shackelford. 

No. 5.— THE WHITE CAP DETECTIVE, by Marline Manly. 

No. 0.— CAPTAIN KATE, by Leander P. Richardson. 

No. 7.— THE PINERY DEN DETECTIVE, by Mark Merrick, Esq. 

No. 8.— BILL TREDEGAR, a tale of the Moonshiners, by Ned Buntline. 
No. 9.— THE IRISH JUDAS; or, The Great Conspiracy Against Par- 
nell, by Clarence Clancool. 

No. 10.— THE GOLD-HUNTER DETECTIVE, by Marline Manly. 

No. 1 1.— THE OKLAHOMA DETECTIVE, by Old Broadbrim. 

No. 12.— THE MINER DETECTIVE, by Ned Buntline. 

No. 13.— HARRY LOVELL, THE GENTLEMAN RIDER, by Sherwood 

Stanley. 

No. 14.— DIAMOND DICK IN ARIZONA, by Delta Calaveras. 

No. 15.- THE GREAT CRONIN MYSTERY, by Mark Merrick, Esq. 

No. 16.— THE JOHNSTOWN HERO, by Marline Manly. 

No. 17.— SILVER MASK, by Delta Calaveras. 

No. 1 8,— THE OYSTER PIRATES, by Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 19.— LOUISVILLE LUKE, THE JOCKEY WONDER, by Jack Howard. 
No. 20.— GUISEPPE, THE WEASEL, by Eugene T. Sawyer. 

No. 21. -CATTLE KATE, by Lieutenant Carlton. 

No. 22.— OLD MAN HOWE, by Wm. 0. Stoddard. 

No. 23,— PHENOMENAL PAUL, THE WIZARD PITCHER OF THE 
LEAGUE, by John Warden. 

No. 24.— THE SHANGHAIER OF GREENWICH STREET, by Henry 

Deering. 

No. 25.-D ARROW, THE FLOATING DETECTIVE, by Ned Buntline. 

No. 26.— HUGO, THE FIGHTER, by William H. Bushnell. 

No. 27.— JACK THE PEEPER, by Harry Temple. 

No. 28.— THE GREAT YACHT RACE, by Marline Manly. 

No. 29.— THE LIGHTS O’ GOTHAM, by Ralph Royal, 

No. 30.— SHADOWED AND TRAPPED; or, Harry the Sport, by Ned 
Buntline. 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 


P. 0. BOX 2734, 


31 ROSE STREET NEW YORK, 


The Select Series. 

A SEMI-MONTHLY PUBLICATION 

DEVOTED TO BOOD READING IN AMERICAN FICTION. 

JPrice, 25 Cents Each. 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED. 

No. 28— A HEART’S IDOL, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 2 7 —WINIFRED, by Mary Kyle Dallas. 

No. 26— FONTELROY, by Francis A. Durivagc. 

No. 25- THE KING’S TALISMAN, by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 21— THAT DOWDY, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

No. 23— DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD. 

No. 22— A HEART’S BITTERNESS, by Bertha M. Clay. 

No. 21— THE LOST BRIDE, by Clara Augusta. 

No. 20— INGOMAR, by Nathan D. Urner. 

No. 19— A LATE REPENTANCE, by Mrs. Mary A. Denison. 

No. 18— ROSAMOND, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. 

No. 17— THE HOUSE OF SECRETS, by Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 

No. 16-SIBYL’S INFLUENCE, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

No. 15 — THE VIRGINIA HEIRESS, by May Agnes Fleming. 

No. 11— FLORENCE FALKLAND, by Burke Brentford. 

No. 13— THE BRIDE ELECT, by Annie Ashmore. 

No. 12 — THE PHANTOM WIFE, by Mrs. M. Y. Victor. 

No. 11 — BADLY MATCHED, by Helen Corwin Pierce. 

No. 10— OCTAYIA’S PRIDE, by Charles T. Manners. 

No. 9— THE WIDOW’S WAGER, by Rose Ashleigh. 

No. 8— WILL SHE WIN? by Emma Garrison Jones. 

No. 7 — GRATIA’S TRIALS, by Lucy Randall Comfort. 

No. 6— A STORMY WEDDING, by Mary E. Bryan. 

No. 5— BRUNETTE AND BLONDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller. 

No. 4— BONNIE JEAN, by Mrs. E. Burke Collins. 

No. 3— YELLA YERNELL, by Mrs. Sumner Hayden. 

No. 2— A WEDDED WIDOW, by T. W. Hanshew. 

No. 1— THE SENATOR’S BRIDE, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller. 

The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postpaid, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by the 
publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

31 Rose Street, New York# 


P. 0, Box 2734. 


THE SELECT SERIES 

OF 

Popular American Copyright Stories, 

BY NOTABLE AUTHORS. 

No. 15. 

The Virginia Heiress 

By MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING, 

AUTHOR OF 

“ Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” “ -A. Wonderful Woman,” 
“One ISTiglit’s IMystery.” 


A tame story lias never come from the vigorous and versatile pen 
of May Agnes Fleming. “ The Virginia Heiress” is a pleasantly 
written, yet powerful and life-like narrative of a flesh-and-blood hero- 
ine, who talks and acts as many self-willed beauties are inclined to 
talk and act. It is the short-lived romantic dream of a young woman 
of culture and refinement, accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth 
whose mental vision at first does not range beyond the rose-colored 
haze of the honey -moon ; but she at length descends from the clouds 
of the lovers’ dreamland, with eyes wide open, and stares this startling 
fact clearly in the face— she .has married a poor man ! He is not only 
poor— far worse than that ; he is the associate of “men who dress for 
dinner by taking off their coats and dining in their shirt-sleeves.” 


PRICE, 25 CENTS. 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

P. O. Box: 8734. 31 Rose Street, New York. 


DENMAN THOMPSON’S OLD HOMESTEAD. 


STREET & SMITH’S SELECT SERIES No. 23. 


JPrice, 25 Cents. 


Some Opinions of the Press. 

“ As the probabilities are remote of the play * The Old Homestead ’ being 
seen anywhere but in large cities it is only fair that the story of the piece should 
be printed. Like most stories written from plays it contains a great deal which 
is not said or done on the boards, yet it is no more verbose than such a story 
should be, and it gives some good pictures of the scenes and people who for a 
year or more have been delighting thousands nightly. Uncle Josh, Aunt Tildy, 
Old Cy Prime, Reuben, the mythical Bill Jones, the sheriff and all the other char- 
acters are here, beside some new ones. It is to be honed that the book will make 
a large sale, not only on its merits, but that other play owners may feel encour- 
aged to let their works be read by the many thousands who cannot hope to see 
them on the stage.” — N. Y. Herald , June 2d. 

“Denman Thompson’s ‘The Old Homestead’ is a story'of clouds and sunshine 
alternating over a venerated home; of a grand old man, honest and blunt, who 
loves his honor as he loves his life, yet suffers the agony of the condemned in 
learning of the deplorable conduct of a wayward son; a story of country life, love 
and jealousy, without an impure thought, and with the healthy flavor of the 
fields in every chapter. It is founded on Denman Thompson s drama of ‘The 
Old Homestead.’ ” — N. Y. Press, May 26th. 

“ Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of the New YorK WeeTcly, have brought 
out in book-form the story of « The Old Homestead,’ the play which, as produced 
by Mr. Denman Thompson, has met with such wondrous success. It will proba- 
bly have a great sale, thus justifying the foresight of the publishers in giving the 
drama this permanent fiction form.”— iV. Y. Morning Journal, June 2d. 

“ The popularity of Denman Thompson’s play of ‘The Old Homestead’ has 
encouraged Street & Smith, evidently with his permission, to publish a good-sized 
novel with the same title, set In the same scenes and including the same charac- 
ters and more too. The book is a fair match for the play in the simple good taste 
and real ability with which it is written. The publishers are Street & Smith, and 
they have gotten the volume up in cheap popular form.” — N. Y. Graphic, May 29. 

“Denman Thompson’s play, ‘The Old Homestead,’ is familiar, at least by rep- 
utation, to every piay-goer in the country. Its truth to nature and its simple 
pathos have been admirably preserved in this story, which is founded upon it 
and follows its incidents closely. The requirements of the stage make the action 
a little hurried at times, but the scenes described are brought before the mind’s 
eye with remarkable vividness, and the portrayal of life in the little New Eng- 
land town is almost perfect. Those who have never seen the play can get an 
excellent idea of what it is like from the book. Both are free from sentimentality 
and sensation, and are remarkably healthy In tone.”— Albany Express. 

“Denman Thompson’s ‘Old Homestead’ has been put into story-form and la is- 
sued by Street & Smith. The story will somewhat explain to those who have not 
seen it the great popularity of the play.”— Brooklyn Times, June 8th. 

^ “The fame of Denman Thompson’s play, ‘Old Homestead,’ is world-wide. 
Tens of thousands have enjoyed it, and frequently recall the pure, lively pleasure 
they took in its representation. This is the story told in narrative form as well 
as it was told on the stage, and will be a treat to all, whether they have seen the 
play or not.”— National Tribune, Washington, D. C. 

“Here we have the shaded lanes, the dusty roads, the hilly pastures, the 
peaked roofs, the school-house, and the familiar faces of dear old Swanzey, and 
the story which, dramatized, has packed the largest theater in New York, and 
has been a success everywhere because of its true and sympathetic touches of 
nature. All the incidents which have held audiences spell- bound are here re- 
corded— the accusation of robbery directed against the innocent boy, his shame, 
and leaving home ; the dear old Aunt Tilda, who has been courted for thirty 
years by the mendacious Cy Prime, who has never had the courage to propose ; 
the fall of the country boy into the temptations of city life, and his recovery by 
the good oldman who braves the metropolis to find him. The story embodies ail 
that the play tells, and all that it suggests as well.”— Kansas City Journal , 
May 2Tth. 


THE 

NUGGET LIBRARY. 


ISSUED EVERY THURSDAY. 


PRICE, 5 CENTS EACH. 


No. 1— SMART ALECK ; or, A Crank’s Legacy. By Frank. 

No. 2— UNDER THE GULF ; or, The Strange Voyage of the 
Torpedo Boat. By Harry St. George. 

No. 3— BOUNCER BROWN ; or, He was Bound to Find His 
Father. By Commodore Ah-Look. 

No. 4— THE GAYEST BOY IN NEW YORK ; or, Adventures by 
Gaslight. By Dash Kingston. 

No. 5— NIMBLE NIP ; or, The Call Boy of the Olympic Theater. 
By John A. Mack. 

No. 6— THE FLOATING ACADEMY ; or, Terrible Secrets of Dr. 

Switchem’s School-Ship. By Dash Dale. 

No. 7- -THE CRIMSON TRAIL ; or, On Custer’s Last War-path. 
By Buffalo Bill. 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 


P. O. Box 2734. 


31 BOSE STREET, New York. 



An Entrancing Emotional Story, 


By BERTHA M. OLAY. 

No. I of the Primrose Edition ot Copyright Novels. 

Olotlx. Price, $1. 


SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

Messrs. Street & Smith, New York, begin anew series of novels— “The 
Primrose Library”— with “Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. The 
story has enough plot to keep one from falling asleep over it, and it also in- 
dicates the stumbling-blocks and pitfalls which abound everywhere for 
young husbands and wives who think so much about having “a good time” 
that they have no time left in which to think about reputation and 
character. — N. Y. Herald , Sept. 10. 

Street & Smith publish the American copyright novel, “Another Man’s 
Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. It deals with certain corrupting influences of 
fashionable society, and impressively warns of the dangers that spring 
from them. Its plot is strong and dramatic, and is elaborated with all of 
the qualities of style that have made the author so popular. It is the first 
issue of the new Primrose Series . — Boston Globe , Sept. 16. 

“Another Man’s Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay, Street & Smith’s Primrose 
Series, is a laudable effort toward the repression of the growing evil of 
matrimonial disloyalty. The book is handsomely bound, with a holiday 
look about it —Brooklyn Eagle , Sept. 15. 

Street & Smith of New York publish in cloth cover “Another Man’s 
Wife,” by Bertha M. Clay. The story is effective. It impressively depicts 
the results certain to attend the sins of deception. It teaches a lesson that 
will not be lost upon those thoughtless men and women who, only intent 
upon pleasure, little dream of the pitfall before them, and to which they are 
blind until exposure wrecks happiness .— Troy ( N . Y.) Press. 

Street & Smith, New York, have brought out in book-form “Another 
Man’s Wife.” This is one of Bertha M. Clay’s most effective stories.— 
Cincinnati Enquirer. 

“Another Man’s Wife.” This is one of Bertha M. Clay’s most effective 
stories. It forcibly and impressibly portrays the evils certain to attend 
matrimonial deceit, clandestine interviews, and all the tricks and devices 
which imperil a wife’s honor. Tt has a novel and entrancmgly interesting 
plot, and abounds in vivid and dramatic incidents. It is the first issue ot 
Street & Smith’s Primrose Edition of Copyright Novels, and will not appear 
elsewhere .— Franklin Freeman. 


SEA AND SHORE SERIES. 

Stories of Strange Adventures Afloat and Ashore, 


ISSUED MONTHLY. 


All Books in this Series are Fully Illustrated, 


The above-named series is issued in clear, large type, uniform in 
size with “The Select Series,” and will consist of the most thrilling 
and ingeniously constructed stories, by popular and . experienced 
writers in the field of fiction. The following books arn now ready : 

Ne. 13.— THEIRISH MONTE CRISTO ABROAD, by Alexander 
Robortson, M.D. 

No. 12.— MEZZONI, THE BRIGAND, by Lieutenant Murray. 
No. 11 — THE IRISH MONTE CRISTO’S SEARCH, by Alexander 
Robertson, M. D. 

No. 10— LA TOSCA, from the celebrated play, by Victorien 
Sardou. 

No. 9— THE MAN IN BLUE, by Mary A. Denison. 

No. 8-BEN HAMED, by Sylranus Cobb, Jr. 

No. 7— A SERVANT OF SATAN. 

No. 6 -THE MASKED LADY, by Lieutenant Murray. 

No. 5— THEODORA, from the celebrated play, by Yictorien 
Sardou. 

No. 1— THE LOCKSMITH OF LYONS, by Prof. Wm. 
Henry Peck. 

No. 3— THE BROWN PRINCESS, by Mrs. M. Y. Victor. 

No. 2— THE SILVER SHIP, by Lewis Leon. 

No. 1— AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO, by John Sherman. 


IPrioe, 25 Gents. 

For sale by all Booksellers and News agents, or will be sent, postage 
free, to any address in the UnitedJStates or Canada, on receipt of 
price, by the publishers, 

STREET & SMITH, 

31 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK, 


P. O. BOX, 2734. 


OF 


POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS, 

BY NOTABLE AUTHORS. 

UNTO. 4. 


THE LOCKS! 


njnm 

in 

V 





TONS; 


OR, 

THE WEAVER’S WAR. 


By PROFESSOR WM, HENRY PECK, 

AUTHOR OF 

“Marlin Marduke,” “£15,000 Reward,” “Siballa, 
the Sorceress,” etc. 


From the very opening paragraph this powerful and intensely exciting 
romance enchains the attention and keeps curiosity constantly active. The 
scene opens in the manufacturing center of Lyons, during a troublesome 
period in her history, when the laboring classes strove to maintain their 
rights against the nobility. The hero, whom fate has made an humble 
workman, finds opportunity for the display of those self-asserting qualities, 
which always force their possessor to the front in every contest. While 
most of the action is thrilling and dramatic, a captivating love episode is 
adroitly interwoven with the main thread of the romance. The mystery 
appertaining to the early life of the Locksmith, the appalling accusation 
which makes him the victim of unseen foes, his fortitude in the most trying 
positions, and his final vindication and reward, are forcibly and sympatheti- 
cally set forth in this well constructed story. 


PRICE, 25 CENTS, 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

p. o. Box, 2734. 31 ROSE STREET, New York. 


The Sea and Shore Series 

OP 

POPULAR AMERICAN COPYRIGHT NOVELS 

By ZNT otaolo Authors. 



BEN HAMED; 

OR, 

THE CHILDREN OF FATE. 


A STORY OF THE EASTERN WORLD. 


By SYLVANUS COBB, Jr., 

AUTHOR OF 

' The Xing's Talisman," "The Gunntaker oi Moscow." 


This delightful Oriental ro- 
mance recalls the fascinating 
stories of the “Arabian Nights,” 
without their supernatural ef- 
fects. Indeed, our old friend 
Haroun A1 Raschid figures prom- 
inently in this work, and is close- 
ly identified with the hero and 
heroine — the devoted Assad and 
the fair Morgiana. There is 
nothing strained or unnatural 
in the story; it is a romance of 
pure love, captivating and ele- 
vating in the highest sense. 

A number of strong charac- 
ters combine with Ben Hamed 
and Abdalla in the solution of 
an ingenious and cleverly sus- 
tained plot. 



Price, 23 Cents. 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 ROSE STREET, New York. 


P. O. Box 2734 . 


WOMEN’S SECRETS 


The public are at last permitted to take a peep into the 
wonderful and mysterious art of 

“HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.” 

We will soon become a nation of Beauty. Read how, in the table of 

CONTENTS : 

THE VALUE OF PERSONAL BEAUTY.— This chapter relates to the Beauty 
iu “Genius,” “Strength,” “Religion,” “Poetry,” ami “Chivalry.” 

THE HISTORY OF BEAUTY.— Mode of acquiring it hy the people of different 
nations. What people are the most beautiful 1 ? 

VARIOUS STANDARDS OF BEAUTY.— Tastes of civilized and uncivilized 
people. The French definition of beauty. 

THE BEST STANDARD OF BEAUTY.— Defines the Head, Hair, Eyes, Cheeks, 
Ears, Nose, Mouth, Bosom, Limbs, and in fact every part of the human form. 

HOW TO RAISE BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN.— To newly married people, and 
those who contemplate entering the conjugal state, this chapter alone is 
well worth the price of the book. 

HOW TO BE BEAUTIFUL.— This chapter is full of information, as it not only 
tells how to beautify every part of the form and features, but gives recipes 
and cures for all the ailments which tend to mar or blemish. 

BEAUTY SLEEP.— To be beautiful it is not necessary to be like the bird that 
seeks its nest at sunset and goes forth again at sunrise. You will here find 
the required time to be spent in bed, the positions mo«t conducive to health, 
facts regarding ventilation, bed-clothes, adornments, and other useful hints. 

BEAUTY FOOD.— Instructs how, when, and where to eat, and also treats of 
Digestion, Complexion, Foods which color the skin, etc. 

HOW TO BE FAT.— The information imparted in this chapter will be a boon to 
thin, delicate women, as it tells what to eat and what to avoid, also what to 
drink and how to dress when plumpness is desirable. 

HOW TO BE LEAN.— If corpulent women will carefully follow the instructions 
herein, they will be happy and enjoy life. 

BEAUTY BATHING AND EXERCISE.— This chapter is intended for every 
one to read and profit by. There is no truer saying than “Cleanliness is next 
to Godliness.” 

EFFECTS OF MENTAL EMOTIONS ON BEAUTY.— After you read this, we 
feel safe in saying that you will not give way to anger, surprise, fright, grief, 
vexation, etc., but will .at all times strive to be cheerful and make the best 
of life. 

HOW BEAUTY IS DESTROYED.— The women are warned in this chapter 
against 'quack doctors and their nostrums, the dangers of overdosing, and 
irregular habits. 

HOW TO REMAIN BEAUTIFUL.— It is just as easy for those that are beauti- 
ful to remain so as to allow themselves to fade away like a flower which 
only blooms for a season. 

HOW TO ACQUIRE GRACE AND STYLE.— Without grace and style beauty 
is lost. They are as essential as a beautiful face. To walk ungracefully or 
awkwardly is not only vulgar but detrimental to the health. 

THE LANGUAGE OF BEAUTY.— This chapter will enable you to read a per- 
son and learn his or her character, without the use of a phrenological chart. 

CORSETS.- When and what kind should be worn. How they were originated, 
and by whom. 

CYCLING.— The latest craze for ladies is fully described in this chapter. 


WOMEN'S SECRETS ; or, How to be Beautiful. 

THE BEST SELLING BOOK OF THE DAY. 


•Just Out. Price 25 Cents. 

For £«»ale by all Newsdealers. 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 

31 Rose street. 
































































































































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